


An Altar to Invisible Light

by irisbleufic



Series: Configured Stars [7]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alliances, Alternate Season/Series 04, Alternate Season/Series 05, Arkham Asylum, Asexual Character, Asexual Spectrum, Bickering, Bonus Content, Brothers, Confessions, Dark Comedy, Demisexual Character, Demisexuality, Diary/Journal, Disability, Do not translate without permission or copy to another site/app, Escape, Established Relationship, Family Drama, Films, Fluff and Humor, Fortune Telling, Golden Age Hollywood, Humor, Inspired by Music, Intersex Character, Irony, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Jerome Valeska Lives, Lazy Sex, Look At Your Life Look At Your Choices, Lost and Found, M/M, Movie Reference, Music, Mythology References, Neurodiversity, Nonbinary Character, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Prompt Fic, Queer Themes, Reconciliation, Resurrection, Reunions, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Secrets, Sibling Rivalry, Siblings, Tasseography, Tasseomancy, Tea, The Rogues Gallery (Batman), Theatre, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Trans Character, Twins, Villains, Weird Fluff, Wizard of Oz References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24483247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “Five had what you might call too much excitement for one morning,” Jerome said, producing the cufflink out of thin air. “Anybody recognize this?”“Sure do,” [Ecco] said, knocking back what was left of her whiskey. “I took those off your dead ass after kickin’ you out of the coffin. Mostly for shits an’ giggles, but also in case J wanted some kinda trophy.” She huffed apologetically. “I regret it now that I know ya. Happy?”Ivy thwapped [Ecco]’s arm with a stack of napkins. “Jeez, genius, what doyouthink?”“Eh, what’s a plundered grave between future friends,” Jerome said, resting one elbow against the bar. “Only trouble is, the other one wasn’t—” he drew the satin bag from his pocket and slapped it on the bar “—in here.”[Ecco] instantly dumped out the bag and picked through the tangled chains and rings, frowning.“Who the fuck broke a couple of these?” she asked, shaking the chains at Jerome. “I liked ’em!”Jerome sighed, feigning regret. “I liked my cufflinks, but this why we can’t have nice things.”
Relationships: 514A & Bruce Wayne, 514A & Jerome Valeska, 514A/Jerome Valeska, Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Ecco & Jeremiah Valeska, Ecco & Jerome Valeska, Ecco/Ivy Pepper (Gotham), Edward Nygma & Ivy Pepper, Edward Nygma & Jerome Valeska, Ivy Pepper & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle & Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle & Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne
Series: Configured Stars [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1388944
Comments: 28
Kudos: 36





	1. The Sea of Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently did [**a full transcription of Jerome's diary pages**](https://irisbleufic.tumblr.com/post/619252662418964480/jerome-valeskas-diary-full-transcription-master), since there were none out there. That artifact was important in earlier stories in this series, so it seemed like as good a time as any to finally make that accessible to curious parties.

The first time Five had experienced a thunderstorm was several days after Ms. Mooney freed him and the rest of Strange’s experimental subjects from Indian Hill. Abstractly, he’d known from books he devoured that they were a weather event caused by atmospheric conditions in the outside world. Concretely, he’d discovered how unpleasant it was to be drenched and freezing.

Five had never understood the use of stripping him of the ability to suffer, but letting him retain the capacity experience such sensations as cold, heat, and pleasure. The temperature extremes, he found irritating. The opposite of pain, he found intoxicating.

Music was the first stimulus in which he’d taken delight, in body as much as in mind. Eventually, he’d learned just how involved in physical sensation the mind could be, and that so much depended on it.

Now, Five was sprawled on his back, listening to distant thunder, enjoying both a song and Jerome’s touch.

“I want to dance to this one, too,” he admitted, turning his face toward the brush of Jerome’s fingers. “Like we did with the Indila—”

“The what?” Jerome interjected, endearingly puzzled. He pressed his palm against Five’s cheek.

“The French song that you liked,” Five clarified, sighing as Jerome kissed the scar above his right eyebrow. “That night at Jeri’s club.”

“We did a hell of a lot more than just dance, princess,” Jerome said, bumping his nose against Five’s temple. “You wanna…do that? To this?”

“Sometime,” Five murmured, closing his eyes, nuzzling Jerome’s jaw. “Not right this instant.”

Jerome shifted closer, pressing his mouth against Five’s neck. “Feels nice,” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” Five said, overwhelmed. Jerome Valeska was _his_ ; nobody else could say that.

“Aren’t you gonna further my musical education?” Jerome teased. “I know you didn’t make me this mixtape for nothin’. What’s this one called?”

“ _Geyser_. The artist’s name is Mitski. I like her,” Five said. “I’d tease you about not knowing much of anything past the 1970s because of what your…what the circus folks listened to, but your childhood was…isolated. Not quite like mine was, but…still. I’ve spent the past few years figuring out what I like. Working security at the Foxglove helped. I heard so many songs.”

“There’s a couple other ones by her on here, huh?” Jerome ventured. “They really suit you.”

Five nodded. “ _Pink in the Night_ and _I Will_. I tried not to make it all stuff you wouldn’t know.”

Jerome smiled. “I appreciate the Bowie and Dylan stuff. Leonard Cohen, I kinda remember.”

“I know what I should put on the next one,” Five said, and started to hum in spite of himself. They were on the penthouse living room floor, savoring the plush carpet. Abashedly, he gave in and sang, “Your mother wouldn’t approve of how my mother raised me, but I do, I think I do. And you’re an all-American boy, I guess…I couldn’t help trying to be your best American girl.”

“Neither of us got raised right, precious,” Jerome said, and then kissed him. “But you _are_ my best American girl, so there’s that.”

Five kissed him back, realizing that maybe he was starting to change his mind about what he wanted right this instant. If nothing else, he wanted to feel Jerome’s skin against his. Someone knocked on the door before he could say as much.

“Lemme get that,” Jerome said, grimacing as he got up. “You know it’s gotta be somebody Brucie-approved. Only so many people on the list.”

Five sat up, watching Jerome turn and stride to the door. He still couldn’t understand how somebody that attractive—he could never help appreciating the view from this angle—wanted him. Even the way Jerome wore his scars made Five’s heart hammer.

Jerome opened the door a crack, and then pulled it wide. “Hey. How’s it hangin’? Did we leave some stuff at your place? My mind’s a sieve.”

“Nah,” Jeri said, stepping just slightly inside, “but I found somethin’ that belongs to you. Your brother said you’d want it.” She handed him a small, scarf-wrapped bundle, seeming suddenly guilty. “Sorry it took me a while to get it to ya. It was wrong of me to read it, but I just—I _worry_ , J. What’s in there had me so sad that I set it aside for like...three months after I found it. I didn’t wanna drop anything destabilizing on you two.”

Jerome unwrapped it partway, but Five couldn’t see what it was. His posture radiated shock.

“Where the hell did you get this?” he asked. “Never mind, Arkham woulda sent it to my bro.”

“Arkham did send it to him,” Jeri said, finally noticing Five on the floor just beyond Jerome. “But he used it for his shenanigans the day the bridges blew. Got dropped in your empty grave, near as Harley an’ Jeremiah could figure. So I went and retrieved it. You know how folks are gonna try to snap up as much…memorabilia as they can, once reunification’s finalized.”

Five adjusted his skirt, wrapped his open hoodie around himself, and waved sheepishly. “Hi.”

“Get your jaw off the floor, Miss Thing,” Jeri said, pointing sternly at him. “Newlyweds. At least wait five fuckin’ minutes till the door’s shut.” She chuckled. “Nah, just jokin’. I ain’t never been married, but I know how it is.”

Five got up and sat down on the sofa, drawing up his knees. Normally, he’d be happy to see Jeri, but he was too focused on Jerome to make room for anyone else. If he said anything, he’d get upset and risk a meltdown. Then, Jerome and Jeri would have to enact damage control.

Jerome was still staring at the thing in his hands, like he didn’t know what to do with it. Five’s sudden movement from floor to sofa made him look up. When his eyes lit on Five’s face, he appeared to snap out of rumination.

“Hey, uh…thanks,” Jerome said, gesturing at Jeri with the thing in his hand, causing the scarf to slip further. It was a slender book. Five could only see the back of it, which was black with mud splatters. “You coulda sold this, though. Made a quick…however much this kinda crap’s going for.”

Jeri shrugged, stepping back into the hall. “Few thousand dollars. Maybe ten grand for the right buyer.” She scratched her nose. “If _you_ wanna sell it, let me know. Maybe I could even get you twenty if you signed it. Hell, if princess over there signed it, too, we might be talkin’ double that.”

“We don’t need money anymore,” Five said, realizing he could contribute something useful.

Jerome snorted, shrugging. “Yeah, looks like Brucie’s footing our bills for the time being.”

“And you oughta milk that for all it’s worth,” Jeri said in approval, waving at them both. “See ya later. Call my cell if you need anything. If I don’t pick up, call the club and ask for Avi.”

“I know to ask for Avi,” Five protested, feeling slightly patronized, but she was already gone.

Jerome came over to the sofa and sat down beside him. He let the scarf fall away completely, and then put the mystery book in Five’s hands. “I’m no good at mixtapes, but I can offer you this.”

Five stared at the book’s cover. It was a Moleskine. There was a mess of glittery, brightly colored stickers on the cover. The letter and number stickers spelled out _JEROM3_. There were several pink and purple heart stickers, plus a yellow smiley face. Jerome’s name and the rest of these framed a gigantic ice cream cone sticker with another pink heart on top.

“You weren’t afraid anyone would make fun of you for this?” Five asked in quiet disbelief.

Jerome hugged Five tight against his side, like he understood exactly why Five was asking.

“By the time I did my second stint in Arkham? Nah. I didn’t care about conventional shit.”

“I like your taste in stickers,” Five said, running his fingers over the edges. “Can I open it?” 

Jerome nodded. “That’s why you’re holdin’ it, sweet pea. I want you to see what’s in there.”

“Thank you,” Five whispered, lifting the cover. Too overwhelmed to make an attempt at perusing each single page, so he flipped page after page of understandably chaotic text and drawings until he came to something that piqued his interest. “I know this song,” he said, tapping some scrawled verse that appeared on the same page as a pair of disembodied, tear-streaming eyes and someone’s bloodied body that had fallen from a great height. “It’s from that old movie, one of the really famous ones—about Dorothy and a dog named Toto? Avi used to play movies in the break room, too. I didn’t see all of it, but I looked up the soundtrack and listened.”

“It’s called _The Wizard of Oz_ , and that’s one thing Jeremiah and I could agree was cool. We musta watched it a hundred times. Did you see any of the Wicked Witch of the West scenes? I kinda related to her, and I related to her even more after…well, _after_.”

“Maybe only one or two?” Five said apologetically. “I saw more of Glinda. She’s too much of a goody two-shoes, but…I wanted that dress.” He traced the verse snippet with his fingertip, noting that the run-on lines were almost entirely in lowercase.

_some days I wish upon  
a star and wake up where the  
clouds are far behind me  
trouble melts like lemon drops  
way above the chimney that’s  
where you’ll find me_

Jerome watched Five for a few seconds, and then set his hand over Five’s against the page.

“Finally got there, didn’t I?” he said, in the tone Five associated with Jerome trying to cheer him up even if he wasn’t feeling cheerful himself. “Heh, literally. This place is above every chimney in the city.”

“I’ve never tried lemon drops,” Five said, at a loss for how to express the emotional tumult brought on by seeing such a private artifact from Jerome’s recent past. “Wishing on stars, though, I have.”

“I love that about you,” Jerome said, curling his fingers around Five’s hand, lifting it from the page so he could kiss it. “It’s not just the nerd stuff you like, constellations or whatever. You’re sentimental. I used to hate admitting that I am, too.”

With his free hand, Five touched the sketch of a person who’d fallen off what looked like a roof.

“Jerome, do you—” he almost couldn’t articulate it “—believe in anything science can’t prove?”

“Sure,” Jerome said, grinning at him. “Especially now. I mean, I died. Twice. But here I am.”

Five closed the book and set it aside, shifting to straddle Jerome’s lap. “Do you like the song as much as you like the movie? We could listen to it.”

“I’d rather hear it as part of watchin’ with you,” Jerome admitted. “I like the song. The times Mom left us with Nana just outside of Gotham, like when the circus was goin’ somewhere she didn’t want toddlers underfoot, Nana would sing it to me and…you know.”

Recognizing Jerome’s expression as one of invitation, Five kissed him, pressing him into the plush back of the sofa. Remembering something Avi had said made him stop kissing Jerome a little sooner than he might have otherwise. 

“The song’s got certain…connotations, doesn’t it? For people…like us. So does the film.”

“The Friends of Dorothy thing? I grew up around folks who said that. Knew what it meant.”

Five smiled at him, feeling less and less apprehensive by the moment. “Avi told me the sequel to the book has somebody in it who’s like me. A girl who’s changed into a boy, who’s eventually changed back into a girl, and…” Uncontrollable laughter seized him. “She’s a—a princess.”

“There ya go,” Jerome cackled, rubbing Five’s back until he calmed down. “Your situation’s got some differences, but the irony isn’t lost.” He quieted himself, thoughtful. “One time, I looked up the guy who wrote the song. Wanna hear about my Oz-related coincidence?”

“Yes,” said Five, resting his head against Jerome’s shoulder. He loved hearing Jerome’s stories.

“This composer guy, Harold Somethin’-or-other,” Jerome said, “his twin brother died the day after they were born. I musta been at the library, one of the times I went to get away from…stuff. I forgot the rest of his name, but not that.”

Five felt sorrow well up in his throat again. “Did that comfort you? Hearing about somebody else who lost their…” He swallowed. “Sorry.”

“You can say it,” Jerome replied, stroking Five’s hair. “I did lose him, but…he lost me, too.”

Five lifted his head and sat back, eyes fixed on Jerome’s. “Are you mad I wanted to kill him for you?” he asked with apprehension.

“How could I ever be mad at you?” Jerome asked. “I thought I wanted him dead. Turns out, nah. We’ve got a chance at…I dunno.”

Five tried to imagine what Jeremiah’s thoughts must be on the matter, and ended up scowling.

“Do you think he even feels the same way? That you have a chance at…what, fixing things?”

Jerome shook his head. “Neither of us feels like we’d be fixing anything, I can tell you that.” 

“Then what would you be doing, except cause each other more grief?” Five asked uncertainly.

“Moving forward,” Jerome said, shrugging, still playing with Five’s hair. “Something new.”

“What d’you think that looks like?” Five asked, guilty for having revived antagonistic sentiments.

Jerome kissed Five, stroking both of his cheeks this time, and then reached for the journal.

“This,” he said, tapping the cover, “was my revenge. One way or another, I knew my bro would end up with it. The gas might not even have been necessary. He and Brucie might’ve driven each other off the deep end without my help.” He grimaced, tossing the book aside. “I don’t even wanna read what’s in there anymore. They made us keep those during group therapy. I liked the arts and crafts element, but...not what it dredged up.”

Five took the book in both hands, burning with curiosity as he opened it to a page at random. He stared at the dense text, his eyes falling on some sentences two thirds of the way down the page. 

_They never have enough medicine in the cup. Lucky I can take someone else’s._

“I’m still fine with you reading it,” Jerome said as Five glanced up from the page, “but only if _you_ want to. I mean it, precious. On the inside, it’s the opposite of that shiny, happy cover.”

“You were medicated in Arkham,” Five said slowly, processing the metaphor Jerome had just presented, “and you...didn’t feel like it was enough?”

Jerome was hesitant to nod. When he did, his expression was as earnest as Five had ever seen it.

“It resulted in stuff like...” Jerome took the journal away from Five, flipped to another page that was all text, and turned it toward Five so he could read. Unlike some of the other pages Five had seen, it was tormented gibberish in comparison, all rhyming, nonsensical repetitions.

Five took the book and closed it, setting it aside again. “What happened on the days you took someone else’s medicine along with your own?”

“I remembered stuff that made me happy,” Jerome said. “A friend from when I was a kid. _Over the Rainbow_. I wrote the parts that make sense.”

Resolutely, Five kissed him again. “They gave me medication in the lab. Every day. I never knew what it was for, but I realize now it stabilized my mood. Kept me from getting too depressed. Otherwise, I’d have outbursts.”

“So the drugs helped?” asked Jerome, with fierce apprehension. He rarely looked so afraid.

“I think so,” Five replied. He shifted off Jerome’s lap, stretched out, and tugged Jerome to lie down beside him. “They helped you, right?”

Jerome stared resignedly at Five. “We need help, huh. I’m the proud idiot who won’t admit it.”

“I don’t want you to feel...like you did when you wrote the pages that make no sense,” Five said. “The pages where you drew revenge fantasies, you felt _something_ good. Murder is part of the stuff that makes you happy.”

“The drugs were meant to turn that off, too, but they never did,” Jerome said. “I was glad.” He sat up again, hauling Five back into his lap. “Bad position,” he said apologetically, rubbing his shoulder. “Better if we stretch out in bed.”

Five bent his head, pressing a dry, chaste kiss against Jerome’s neck, just below his earlobe.

“I want us to keep doing what makes you happy,” he whispered. “What makes _us_ happy.”

“Regimen of head-meds and murder,” Jerome sighed, shivering contentedly. “That’s the plan?”

“Maybe therapy, but not the group kind that didn’t work for you,” Five went on. “Harley.”

“I guess she’d know where to start, huh,” Jerome agreed. “And she’s okay with murder.”

“More than okay,” Five replied, kissing Jerome’s earlobe this time, not so dry. “Is…this?”

“Okay?” Jerome faltered, cradling the back of Five’s head to keep him there. “More than.”

Five sucked on Jerome’s earlobe for a little while, throwing in kisses and bites when the sounds Jerome made became frustrated. Five was hard where he was pressed up against Jerome’s belly, and he could feel growing interest from Jerome pressed against his inner thigh.

Jerome tilted his head with a laugh, so Five had no choice but to pause. He tangled his fingers in Five’s loose, unbrushed hair and used his free hand to palm at Five’s ass. He bumped his nose against Five’s.

“You’re way too patient, princess,” Jerome said, delivering a sharp, electrifying bite to Five’s neck, “but I appreciate it. Want me to suck you off?”

Five couldn’t do anything but whimper and squirm, because Jerome was doing the same thing to Five’s earlobe now that Five had been doing to Jerome’s until a moment ago. Jerome was driving him to desperation.

“Whatever _you_ want,” was all Five could manage, realizing he really had been too patient.

Jerome seemed to understand. He dragged the hand he’d placed on Five’s backside around to the front, sliding it beneath Five’s skirt. He unbuttoned Five’s underwear, carefully coaxing Five’s erection into his hand.

“Tell me how you want it,” Jerome said, astonishingly forthright, stroking him. “Like that?”

Five gasped, hips jolting forward. He worked his own shaky fingers beneath his skirt and took hold of Jerome’s hand, showing him the right pace.

“Love you so much, baby,” Jerome murmured in Five’s ear, his voice rough. “So close you can taste it, huh?”

Five was so shocked to hear such direct dirty talk from Jerome that he came instantly. “Jerome!”

“ _Shhh_ , _shhh_ ,” Jerome soothed, even though they had no reason to care if anyone heard them. He kissed Five’s cheeks, easing his grasp as Five’s aftershocks faded. “How’s that?”

Five didn’t waste any time shedding his top layers, even if he still felt deliciously weak. He unbuttoned Jerome’s plaid flannel shirt, which he found about as charming as Jerome’s fancy pajama-set and robe preferences when it came to lounging at home.

“S’good, but I want…” Five let Jerome lay him back against the sofa cushions, relieved when Jerome caught onto what he was after. He watched Jerome rise and shed his clothes, and then let Jerome help him out of the rest of his own, which were damp anyway.

Jerome pressed Five down on his back, covering Five’s body with his own, warming him. It was more comfortable for him like this than lying on his side, Five could already tell. He massaged Jerome’s shoulders, working his way down to the small of Jerome’s back.

“I enjoy this as much as you do, sweet pea,” Jerome reassured him, nuzzling Five’s cheek. “Just wanna hold you and listen to…well, hey. We could watch the movie. What d’you think about that?”

Five nodded, but he wondered if Jerome, aroused by now, needed attention—but wasn’t prioritizing himself, which was hardly unusual for him. He was sometimes too proud to ask, and it made Five’s heart clench.

“Want me to take care of that?” Five asked, not doing anything more than hold Jerome tight. At this point, he had the feeling it was more about saying the right thing and letting their closeness do the rest. “I love you.”

Jerome groaned and shuddered, his climax as sudden as Five’s had been. “Five,” he panted. “ _Fuck_.”

“We can do that later, if you want,” Five teased quietly, playing with Jerome’s messy hair.

Jerome breathed out, sagging bonelessly against Five. He raised his head and kissed him.

“I don’t think so,” he mumbled, nibbling Five’s lower lip, but the jab was fond. “Movie?”

Abruptly, it occurred to Five just how much Jerome must want to show him the film. He’d only repeated the suggestion three times.

“We should do that,” Five agreed, reaching over the edge of the sofa to snag his tee off the floor.

“Gross,” Jerome said, lifting up to let Five clean the mess, but that was mostly meant in jest, too.

“Shut up,” Five grumbled, throwing his shirt back on the floor. “You make more of it than I do.”

Jerome shrugged, disinclined to argue. Instead of lying back down, he went to fetch the remote control off the entertainment center.

Five propped himself up on his elbows, his slowing pulse quickening again at the sight of him.

Turning around with the remote in hand, Jerome froze, staring at him. “Is that why Jeri said…”

Blushing wasn’t something that Five experienced often, but he knew that it was happening now.

“Shut _up_ ,” he complained, rolling to face the back of the sofa. “You have no idea how…”

Jerome came back and sat on the sofa’s edge, touching Five’s shoulder, rolling Five to face him.

“I feel like that every time I look at you,” he said, painfully earnest, “so…yeah. I really do.”

“It’s partly lust, though,” Five said, feeling guilty again. “I know you don’t _always_.”

Jerome helped Five sit up, and then pulled the blanket down off the back of the sofa, swaddling it around them. He tipped Five’s chin up.

“It’s partly that for me sometimes, too,” Jerome said, half smiling. “It’s partly that for both of us, _partly_ being the operative word. I like that.”

Five twisted sideways, sliding both arms around Jerome. He hugged Jerome in sheer relief, hiding his face in the crook of Jerome’s neck while Jerome turned on the television and flipped through Amazon, or Netflix, or whatever it was going to take to find the film.

“Me too,” Five sighed. He jumped, startled, when Jerome sat forward with a wordless, triumphant exclamation. “Did you find it?”

“Yup,” Jerome said, happily smacking a kiss right on top of Five’s head. “Want popcorn?”

“Not if we’re gonna stay naked,” Five muttered, but he couldn’t help grinning. “Do you?”

“How ’bout at intermission,” Jerome replied, clicking the _PLAY_ prompt. He flopped down on his back, dragging Five down to lie on top of him, adjusting the blanket over them. “I’m not done with you, either.”

Cuddling was something Five had always known he’d want, but that he ran the risk of any prospective partners finding him clingy. What had happened with Selina, as far behind him as the incident was, still filled him with anxious shame.

Jerome didn’t seem to care that Five was so touch-starved, or craved so much emotional reassurance. Maybe it was because he’d been telling himself for so long that he _didn’t_ want those things, but no longer felt like he had to deny it.

“Films have intermissions?” Five blurted dubiously, tucking his head beneath Jerome’s chin.

“Really old ones did,” Jerome said after a few seconds, distracted by the opening credits.

“Like…in the theater?” Five asked, feeling silly because screen after screen of names and studio information meant nothing to him. “Why was the title in quotation marks? That made no sense.”

Jerome made an exasperated noise, tickling Five until they were both near tears with laughter.

“Yeah, they’d have a break so you could go and get stuff,” Jerome wheezed. “Nana said so.”

“I don’t understand why the title was in quotation marks,” Five protested again, poking him.

“I thought that was what you did with titles,” Jerome said, sounding genuinely puzzled.

“Only in printed media. Even then, sometimes you put them in italics,” Five explained.

“It was just a _thing_ with old movies,” Jerome replied. “Couldn’t tell ya, babe.”

“I’ll look it up later,” Five told him, realizing the credits were almost through. “S’fine.”

Jerome kissed Five, catching him by surprise. “Nerd stuff’s sexy, coming from you.”

“Stoppit, I’m gonna miss…” Five stared at the screen. “Why is this in black and white?”

Jerome made a sound of confusion. “I thought you saw parts of this?” he asked, at a loss.

“I did!” Five groused, giving him a swift kick in the shin. “All the parts I saw were in color!”

“Ow!” Jerome protested halfheartedly. “Gotcha. That means you never saw the beginning.”

“I thought the part with Dorothy and Glinda was the first scene,” Five remarked petulantly.

“Nope,” Jerome sighed, resigned, rubbing Five’s back to calm him down. “Just watch.”

Five found it strange, seeing actors he knew he’d seen in the later parts in a different context. Storytelling in reverse wasn’t something he’d known he was interested in until he’d had to learn his own like that—reading his Indian Hill files in order to recover the memories they’d taken from him, and to learn where he’d come from in the first place. It was weirdly compelling.

Jerome was unusually quiet, absorbed in the action, running his fingers through Five’s hair.

Five had any number of questions, not least because he couldn’t make out much of the early dialogue. His ear wasn’t accustomed to the actors’ speed and inflection, which was different from the norm in the handful of more current films he and Jerome had watched together.

When Aunt Em told Dorothy that she needed to find a place where she wouldn’t get into any trouble, Five felt Jerome tense under him. He wondered if that meant what he thought it did—and, sure enough, that was what signaled the song’s arrival.

“She has a pretty voice,” Five marveled a few bars into the piece. “I can’t believe I missed this.”

Jerome shushed Five with a kiss, looking up at Five instead of at the screen. “So do you. Did you know that?”

Five shook his head, every inch of his skin flushing hot. He disliked the sensation when it was more than just his face.

“Here’s the part,” Jerome murmured against Five’s lips. “I think I missed out a word in there.”

Five kissed his way down to the hollow of Jerome’s throat. “Just _tops_. Right after _chimney_.”

“Mustn’t have scanned well enough for my liking,” Jerome said, winking when Five lifted his head to see if Jerome was joking. “That’s not it, sweet pea. I just…couldn’t remember.”

Five shrugged. “I couldn’t remember _years_ of stuff. One word’s nothing to worry about.”

Jerome glanced sidelong at the screen, frowned, and met Five’s eyes again. “Sorry, princess.”

“Why?” Five asked, puzzled, resting his head over Jerome’s heart. “I’m not. I got it all back.”

“Thought it might be insensitive, is all,” Jerome confessed. “Never used to worry about that.”

Five closed his eyes, entranced by the song’s languid cadence. “I can see why your grandmother sang this to you. It sounds like a lullaby.”

Instead of responding, Jerome just went on fussing with Five’s hair, his touch gentler than ever.

“I could learn it,” Five murmured, caressing Jerome’s upper arms until the muscles relaxed.

“I’d like that,” Jerome said as Dorothy repeated the last couple of lines. “I’d like that a lot.”

Five snagged Jerome’s hand when he slid it from Five’s hair to Five’s cheek. He kissed it.

“You wanted someplace without any trouble, didn’t you,” he whispered. “Is this enough?”

Jerome was speechless for long, reverent seconds, tracing his fingertips over Five’s lips.

What Five had really wanted to ask went against his better judgment. His eyes began to sting.

“Of course you are,” Jerome whispered back, tapping his index finger against Five’s nose.

When Glinda finally made her first appearance, Five breathed a sigh of relief, glad she’d never been subjected to the colorless landscape of the film’s opening. He hung on her every word, realizing how much he’d forgotten.

“You’d look gorgeous in that,” Jerome murmured, his breath warm against Five’s cheek.

“I used to research costume versions and reproductions,” Five admitted. “None looked right.”

“With our current funding, I betcha we could make it happen,” Jerome said with devious delight.

Five shook his head. “He’d never let us propose an expense like that. It’s way too frivolous.”

“Like running off to Switzerland _wasn’t_?” Jerome countered. “I’ll ask Jeremiah, then.”

“No, please don’t,” Five protested, hiding his face in consternation. “Why d’you think he’d—”

“Because his guilt’s a million times worse than Brucie’s,” Jerome snickered. “Count on it.”

Five mulled that over, realizing he was just a touch bored with the Lollipop Guild. “Huh.”

“If there’s anything I know, it’s that he’s realized he cares more than he’d let on,” Jerome said.

Realizing he didn’t have anything to say in response, Five nodded, snuggling back against Jerome’s chest. He felt lazy and comfortable, and there were few things they liked more than introducing each other to simple pleasures that their fraught lives had often denied them.

“Sleep, precious,” Jerome murmured, stroking Five’s hair. “I’ll wake you for the good parts.”

“No,” Five insisted, kissing Jerome before he shed the blanket and got up. “I’ll make popcorn.”

“What about staying naked?” Jerome asked, extending a hand. “I don’t need it. Pinkie swear.”

Five hooked his pinkie around Jerome’s, bending to kiss him again. “Felt your stomach growl.”

“Fine,” Jerome sighed, grinning. “I guess the view as you’re walkin’ away will be worth it, huh?”

Five winked, straightened up, and turned his back. When Jerome wolf-whistled, he laughed.


	2. The Artist's Eye

Jeremiah wasn’t paying much attention when Bruce’s cell phone rang. He was engrossed in the falling light as it cast the bell tower of Graun’s sunken church in flame. Getting a scene like that on paper wasn’t easy, as most of his past sketching experience was technical.

Behind him on the blanket, Bruce sounded worried as he took the call. “Hello? Who is— _oh_.”

Picking through his oil pastels, Jeremiah tried to find the correct shades of red and orange to mix with the charcoal he’d been using. Something about the way Bruce fell silent and listened to the caller was troubling. Usually, he took control of any given phone conversation.

“I see,” Bruce said, his tone curiously neutral. “You weren’t expecting her, then? If not, I can see how a delivery like that would be…disruptive.”

Jeremiah lost his grip on the pastels when Jerome’s laughter, harsh and unmistakable, was audible even though he wasn’t the one with the phone to his ear. Irked, he tossed his sketchpad aside and threw his drawing implements in the grass.

Noticing in concern, Bruce shoved the phone between his cheek and his shoulder so he could hand Jeremiah a single use wet-wipe packet from what was left of their picnic dinner. He chewed the inside of his lower lip, watching Jeremiah clean off his fingers, listening to whatever inanities Jerome was spouting on the other end of the line. He was being too patient, which was a bad sign.

“I’m relieved it wasn’t upsetting. Ah…sure? That’s what it’s there for, glad you found…”

Jeremiah snagged one of the left-over napkins, drying the residue from his stained fingers.

“What have they done now?” he whispered, intentionally louder than Bruce would’ve liked.

“Nothing!” Bruce hissed, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. “No, Jerome. Not at all, he just wanted to know how you were—right, sorry.”

Rolling his eyes, Jeremiah turned his back on the ridiculous one-sided exchange and watched sunset begin to ripple across Reschensee. Whatever Jerome wanted, it involved ruining their evening. He’d claim not to understand the time difference, but Jeremiah knew better.

“Hold on, back up—you want to commission _what_?” Bruce asked incredulously. “Why?”

“Because princess wants whatever it is,” said Jeremiah, snidely, behind his hand. “Why else?”

Bruce blinked, like he did when Jeremiah made an accurate guess. “That’s not out of the blue, given what you were watching, but…”

“If it’s something they saw on TV,” Jeremiah said, “Jerome never could resist commercials.”

Bruce thwacked Jeremiah’s shoulder with a clean plate. “Do I know who can sew that? Um, _no_?”

“Never mind,” Jeremiah said, rubbing where he’d been hit. “Five’s making demands after all.”

“Yeah, but Penguin’s father is dead.” Bruce sounded so bewildered that Jeremiah felt sorry.

“Talk about apples that didn’t fall far from the tree,” Jeremiah mused. “How’d he know about old man Van Dahl’s line of business, though?”

Bruce gave Jeremiah’s shoulder another tap—gentler this time, with his hand. “Wait, how did you know Elijah Van Dahl was a tailor?”

Jeremiah jumped out of his skin when Bruce shoved the phone up against his unsuspecting ear.

“If you wanted to talk history, brother,” Jerome said derisively, “why didn’t you just say so?”

“I didn’t,” Jeremiah snapped, glaring over his shoulder at Bruce, who looked dashingly smug.

“Princess tells me what we want is a seamstress,” Jerome informed him. “Tailor, not so much.”

“Is there a point to this tedious exchange, aside from securing funds?” Jeremiah deadpanned.

“Nope,” Jerome said, feigning innocence. “Did I, uh…catch you in the middle of something?”

“An art project,” Jeremiah replied, shoving the phone back at Bruce. “So help me, if you let—”

“Fine,” Bruce was already saying into the mouthpiece. “Just—I don’t care. Really. Goodbye.”

“Was that as excruciating as it sounded?” Jeremiah asked, watching Bruce toss the phone like he’d tossed his art supplies. “What did they want?”

“Permission to have somebody make Glinda’s dress from _The Wizard of Oz_ for Five,” Bruce said.

That was so unbelievably, hilariously unhinged that Jeremiah didn’t stop laughing for a minute.

Shaking his head, Bruce rose and retrieved what they’d thrown in the grass. “I guess it’s funny.”

“Makes sense that Jerome would be giving that shut-in a whistlestop tour of modern cinema,” Jeremiah wheezed. “That’s too good.”

“Oh,” Bruce said, feigning nonchalance as he returned, “you mean like I had to do with _you_?”

“All right, that’s fair,” Jeremiah retorted, averting his gaze, chagrined. “Go ahead and rub it in.”

“I wish they’d bother Jeri with it,” Bruce sighed, shoving the phone and art supplies in Jeremiah’s bag. He didn’t waste any time in scooting up behind Jeremiah, wrapping his arms around Jeremiah’s shoulders. “She was there a few hours ago. Finally gave back Jerome’s journal.”

“That explains a lot,” Jeremiah said dryly, taking hold of Bruce’s hands where he’d clasped them over Jeremiah’s heart. “There are quotes from the film scrawled all through it. Confirms my suspicions that he never really grew up, if you want to know the truth.”

“I only saw part of _Over the Rainbow_ ,” Bruce said after a few seconds, lost in thought.

“You didn’t read it a dozen times through like I did,” Jeremiah said bitterly. “You saw me flip maybe five or six pages that day, when I ruined—”

“When _we_ ruined everything,” said Bruce, pressing his lips to the back of Jeremiah’s neck.

“I didn’t understand it,” Jeremiah murmured. “How you could share the blame. I still don’t.”

Bruce rubbed his cheek against the spot he’d just kissed. Even through two layers, his own linen shirt and one of Bruce’s sweaters, Jeremiah felt the brush of Bruce’s thumbs against his chest. Bruce could be infuriatingly subtle when it came to seduction.

“You don’t need to,” Bruce insisted, his light touch gaining pressure as he added more fingertips.

“Any marriage counselor worth their salt would disagree,” Jeremiah said, wondering what had possessed him to bring up something so reckless.

“I had a look at your sketch,” Bruce remarked, as if embarrassed to admit it. “It’s fascinating.”

Jeremiah felt his lips involuntarily twitch. “I was hoping you’d want to frame it. For the chalet.”

“No, for Wayne Manor,” Bruce said, his hands finally straying lower. “Maybe the new library?”

“If the interior decorating’s shaping up too modern, just shoot me,” Jeremiah cringed, shivering.

“We need a reminder of this place,” Bruce said, unbuckling Jeremiah’s belt. “Do you agree?”

Jeremiah nodded convulsively, his pulse spiking. “Not that we’ll ever stay away for long.”

Scooting forward so he could press closer against Jeremiah’s back, Bruce slid one hand beneath Jeremiah’s shirt, pressing his palm flat against Jeremiah’s belly. He worked his other hand inside Jeremiah’s boxers, running his palm up the underside of Jeremiah’s cock.

“Nobody comes here,” Bruce reassured, seemingly unaware of what he’d just said. “It’s quiet.”

“It won’t be if I come here,” Jeremiah said, satisfied to feel Bruce’s chest heave with laughter.

“I walked right into that one,” Bruce said once he’d calmed down, his tone wry. “How’s this?”

Tempted to close his eyes and surrender to Bruce’s demanding strokes, Jeremiah focused on the bell tower’s silhouette against the horizon.

“You’re terrible,” Jeremiah sighed contentedly, tipping his head back against Bruce’s shoulder.

“You’re worse,” Bruce replied. He was trembling, hard against the small of Jeremiah’s back.

Jeremiah licked his lips, reaching back at an awkward angle, taking hold of Bruce’s hips.

“You spoil me, dear heart,” he murmured, satisfied when Bruce gave a choked whimper.

“Good,” Bruce managed, sliding the hand he’d pressed to Jeremiah’s belly up to his chest.

Jeremiah found it frustrating that neither of them could move much in this position, but deliciously so. He dug his thumbs into the hollows of Bruce’s hipbones, wrists beginning to ache with the strain of being twisted backwards.

“I’ll blow you,” he cajoled, turning his head, nipping clumsily at Bruce’s neck. “Get you off while you’re watching that breathtaking sunset.”

Bruce swallowed something louder than a whimper, slowing his hand on Jeremiah before redoubling his efforts. “No. I’m getting you off first.”

Jeremiah bit his tongue, realizing that was most likely what would happen. “Such a spoilsport.”

Bruce turned his head, catching Jeremiah’s mouth in a bruising kiss. He tightened his grip, making sure the next stroke was agonizingly slow.

“You knew what you were getting into with me, Jeremiah,” he hissed against Jeremiah’s lips. “ _Fuck_.”

Jeremiah savored the knowledge that Bruce had just lost control of himself—evident not just in the profanity, but in how tightly he’d clamped his thighs at Jeremiah’s hips. He shifted his grasp to Bruce’s knees, pulling them in tighter against his own.

“We’re missing it,” Jeremiah groaned, too easily renouncing the sunset as he came in Bruce’s grasp.

They sat like that for a while, clinging to each other, shuddering with faint, satisfied aftershocks. Reschensee was most beautiful at dawn, as seen from the chalet bedroom window, but the bell tower was best viewed up close and backlit by a sky on fire.

“Imagine if we’d done this overlooking the river,” Bruce said, “instead of at the penthouse.”

The thought was enough to make Jeremiah gasp—seized with fresh spasms, ecstatic.

“Don’t make me regret it,” he laughed, sounding far too hysterical for his own liking.

“Let’s see what’s become of the warehouse,” Bruce suggested. “When we get back.”

“Jim’s probably had it condemned,” Jeremiah replied, relaxing against him. “Dull.”

“Sometimes I wonder what might’ve happened if…” Bruce nuzzled Jeremiah’s neck.

“It did happen,” Jeremiah reminded him fondly, reaching back to muss Bruce’s hair.

Bruce nodded, tucking a fervent kiss beneath Jeremiah’s ear. “I guess that’s true.”

Jeremiah tugged at Bruce’s wrists, gently extracting his hands. “Do you regret…”

“The destruction, yes,” Bruce confessed, snagging the remaining packets of wipes, “but not _us_.”

“I struggle to see us as anything but the destruction,” Jeremiah said, helping Bruce clean them.

Bruce staggered to his feet, and then helped Jeremiah stand up. “I struggle with that, too.”

Jeremiah put his clothing in order, watching Bruce do the same. “Misery loves company.

They packed up and started back in the direction of the car, with Bruce carrying the basket, and Jeremiah carrying his bag. Dusk hadn’t fully settled, but the path through the trees, back up to the shoulder of the road, was winding and unlit.

Bruce took Jeremiah’s hand as soon as they crossed the tree-line onto the trail, squinting ahead.

“It only took us about ten minutes to make it from the car down to the edge of the lake, right?”

Jeremiah nodded, rubbing his thumb in idle circles over the back of Bruce’s hand. “I think so.”’

Bruce turned his head, smiling at Jeremiah, his features almost obscured by the insufficient light.

“This reminds me of the walks we used to take. The woods where you lived were beautiful.”

“My bunker?” Jeremiah asked, finding himself charmed to remember. “Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes,” Bruce admitted, staring up at the sky through the branches. “It was your home.”

“It would’ve been yours, too, if you’d asked,” Jeremiah said. “Even though you had one.”

“I still do,” Bruce insisted, quickening his pace as the remaining light faded. “We both do.”

“I hope the instructions I left Alfred were clear enough,” Jeremiah fretted, dashing to keep up.

“He hasn’t mentioned any of the crew finishing the interiors getting confused,” Bruce replied.

“Small mercies,” said Jeremiah, relieved to see the road just ahead of them, up the grassy rise.

Bruce was silent as he drove them back to the chalet, seemingly lost in thought. Upon their return, he set the basket down in the foyer and told Jeremiah to leave his bag. He supposed the housekeeper would take care of it, like she did everything else in Alfred’s absence.

Jeremiah was glad Bruce dragged him to the shower, as they’d gotten filthy enough in more ways than one to merit the scrubbing. Their previous stay, as relatively brief as it had been, had gotten Jeremiah accustomed to the water pressure. They lay on the tile floor.

“You never got to see the bunker’s master bath,” Jeremiah yawned, combing his fingers through Bruce’s sopping wet curls as the hot spray fell on them. “It was big enough to do this,” he added. “In fact, I often did. Fell asleep like that sometimes.”

“Glad I’m not the only one,” Bruce sighed, closing his eyes in bliss. “Alfred calls it a bad habit.”

“Alfred’s a poor sport when it comes to dallying over life’s simple pleasures,” Jeremiah replied.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Bruce laughed. “You should ask Lucius what he’s like off the clock.”

“Off the clock is one thing,” Jeremiah said. “Off the clock with one’s lover is entirely another.”

Bruce opened his eyes, shielding them from the relentless spray. “Is that how it would’ve been?”

“Off the clock with you?” Jeremiah asked softly. “At the bunker, if none of this had happened?”

Bruce looked afraid for a few seconds, and then nodded, closing the slight space between them.

Jeremiah loved lying like this, face to face on their sides, pressed so close it was claustrophobic.

“Love, I wouldn’t have gotten _any_ of my work done. I would have taken you to bed at all hours.”

Shivering, Bruce pressed his mouth against Jeremiah’s—just breathing there, not quite a kiss.

“I would’ve paid you the same rate anyway, although…that might’ve been insulting, I realize.”

Jeremiah grinned, rubbing Bruce’s slippery back. “You say that as if I mind being a kept man.”

Bruce shook his head, playfully biting Jeremiah’s lower lip. “That’s not what you are to me.”

“Then what am I?” Jeremiah asked, masking his uncertainty with a fierce, languorous kiss.

“Home,” Bruce said, already hard, trembling against Jeremiah’s body. “That’s what I meant.”

“ _Shhh_ , lie back,” Jeremiah told him, rolling forward until Bruce settled beneath him. “I’m going to take care of you like I wanted to earlier.”

Usually, neither one of them got to focus solely on the other for that long, but Jeremiah enjoyed lavishing attention on Bruce when he wasn’t driven to distraction by arousal. _Desire_ , certainly—but, for him, the latter didn’t always manifest as the former.

“What do you mean by that? I’m not sure what you— _oh_ ,” Bruce blurted, endearingly flustered, raking his unsteady fingers through Jeremiah’s hair as Jeremiah positioned himself between Bruce’s spread thighs. “You don’t have to if you’re not— _fuck_.”

Jeremiah ignored Bruce’s chivalrous protests, teasingly licking water droplets off the tip of him.

“I’m not likely to get off again. That doesn’t bother me,” he said, nuzzling Bruce’s erection before pressing a kiss against the underside of it, pleased when Bruce couldn’t help gasping. “You spoiled me, Bruce, but I didn’t even get to touch you.”

Bruce was breathing shallowly, his fingers tightening in Jeremiah’s hair. “Do it,” he ordered.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Jeremiah said, taking Bruce’s cock in his mouth without hesitation.

When there wasn’t any chance of being heard, Bruce’s lack of inhibitions was truly impressive. Jeremiah understood how quickly such habitual reserve could devolve into startling wantonness, and he made sure Bruce’s curses and pleas didn’t go unanswered.

Bruce came in Jeremiah’s mouth after a few minutes, his chest heaving. “Jeremiah,” he panted.

Jeremiah felt guilty about spitting into the drain, as the suddenness had taken him by surprise.

“Does that feel better?” he asked, winking up at Bruce, massaging Bruce’s calves. “You sound so lovely when you swallow your pride.”

Bruce struggled to sit up, forcing Jeremiah to sit back on his heels. He kissed Jeremiah soundly.

“I’ll do the same for you,” he said as Jeremiah helped him to his feet. “Later, promise.”

“You won’t need to,” Jeremiah said, squeezing some shampoo on top of Bruce’s head.

Once they were clean and dried off, full tea service was waiting for them in the living room. Jeremiah hadn’t seen a strainer with holes large enough to let minute fragments of leaf gather in the bottom of his cup in quite some time. That gave him an idea.

“Why are you drinking so fast?” Bruce nursed his like it was the last Earl Grey he’d ever get.

“I want to show you something,” Jeremiah said, swirling what was left in the bottom of his cup.

Bruce gulped the rest of what was in his cup, as if he understood what was about to happen.

“I’ve told you before how my father home-schooled us on the road, at least until I left Haly’s,” Jeremiah said, knocking back the tea he’d managed to separate from the leaf-particles stuck in his cup. “In some ways, it was a traditional education—but in others, not so much.”

“He taught you tasseography?” Bruce asked. “Isn’t that…difficult, for someone who can’t see?”

“Tasseomancy’s the term he preferred,” Jeremiah said, staring at the patterns he was left with.

“Both are correct,” Bruce said, reading off his phone screen. “Are you reconsidering its worth?”

“As a valid discipline?” Jeremiah scoffed. “Not compared to the caliber of prophecies governing _your_ life. But as a simple diversion? Sure.”

Bruce was frowning into his cup now, too. “Alfred had a fortune telling teacup with symbols printed inside. I broke it when I was young.”

“We never used the kind with guidelines,” Jeremiah sighed, pinpointing something familiar. “You could argue that’s a star,” he said, showing Bruce.

“What does it mean?” Bruce asked, trying not to smirk. “Is it something you’ve seen before?”

“Usually associated with those who follow an innate sense of purpose, even to their detriment,” Jeremiah explained sourly. “Not a word.”

“That sounds a lot like you,” Bruce said anyway. “Even the part about it being a detriment.”

“I’d like to think we salvaged things,” Jeremiah muttered, turning his cup counterclockwise. “The rest of this is nonsense. I give up.”

Bruce took Jeremiah’s cup from him, set it on the tray, and handed Jeremiah his own. “Here.”

Curiously, Jeremiah peered into its depths. The design there was all too ironically recognizable.

“That’s an umbrella,” he said, recalling a moment in childhood when Jerome had gotten an example nearly as starkly defined. “Look.”

Bruce didn’t get excited right away, but he didn’t look unimpressed, either. “Meaning?”

“An outing that will change your life,” Jeremiah said. “For the unmarried? A proposal.”

“Every outing I’ve taken with you has changed my life,” Bruce said. “This trip included.”

Jeremiah set Bruce’s cup on the coffee table next to his own, uncomfortably ignoring the unaddressed meaning. He took the lid off the teapot and stared into it, realizing there was far too much tea left for him to discern any patterns at the bottom.

“What are you doing?” Bruce asked, setting his warm, deliberate hand on Jeremiah’s forearm.

“So much for a joint reading,” Jeremiah said glibly. “We’ll have to drink the rest of it first.”

No-nonsense as ever, Bruce took the teapot from the tray. He refilled their cups, and then headed across the vast open-plan space to the kitchen sink. He poured the remainder down the drain, going slowly enough not to lose most of the leaves.

“There,” Bruce said, coming back to the sofa, offering Jeremiah the teapot. “I want to know.”

Lifting the lid, Jeremiah stared into the teapot’s depths. Amidst the randomly scattered shreds, he spotted two shapes in the largest clusters, insultingly discernible. It had always amazed him, how some forms persistently haunted readers everywhere.

“Hourglass,” Jeremiah said, pointing to the most recognizable of the two. “If you’re cynical, it’s time running out, the need to make a decision quickly. If you’re optimistic, it’s…time as an illusion, taking initiative to create your own future.”

Bruce didn’t blink as he shifted his eyes to the other shape. “Fascinating. And what’s that one?”

“Scales,” Jeremiah said, tracing them out for him. “Balanced ones, fortunately. I’d worry if…”

Taking the teapot in both hands, Bruce set it back on the tray. He shifted on the sofa cushion, turning to fully face Jeremiah with intent, serious eyes. That portentous expression could mean something good as easily as something bad.

“So, if I’ve understood,” he said, “it means there’s a decision to be made, and we’re equals in it.”

Jeremiah gave a half-nod, eyes fixed on his hands in his lap as he shifted to face Bruce in kind.

“It’s an imprecise art at best,” he demurred, lifting his gaze to meet Bruce’s, “but that’s the gist.”

Bruce took Jeremiah’s hands, clasping them to his chest, entwining their fingers. He was scared.

“We should consider getting married. I doubt you’ll disagree with me, but I need to make sure.”

Shakily drawing Bruce’s hands to his mouth, Jeremiah kissed the back of one, and then the other.

“You do recall they beat us to it,” he said, swallowing around his disbelief. “It’s not as if they tossed a bouquet, unless I missed you catching—”

Bruce cut him off with an eager, possessive kiss. “Does that mean yes or no? Do you want to?”

“I do,” Jeremiah said, realizing what a silly statement that was in reply, almost jumping the gun.

Perhaps struck with the same thought, Bruce burst into laughter. He hid his face against Jeremiah’s shoulder, which was strangely adorable.

“Do you wonder if this is how they felt?” Bruce asked, breathless. “Or which one of them suggested it? They must’ve felt like their time was up.”

Jeremiah couldn’t even manage to be angry that Bruce wouldn’t shut up about their relatives. 

“You know Jerome,” he sighed, running his fingers through Bruce’s residually damp hair. “He’ll do anything on a whim. What about Five?”

“He’s willful,” Bruce said, finally just resting his head on Jeremiah’s shoulder. “Blunt, too.”

“So much for that thought experiment,” Jeremiah sighed, sinking back into the throw pillows, dragging Bruce along with him. “Inconclusive.”

Bruce lifted his head, his eyes softer now, content. “You don’t want to propose a wager?”

“Do I _look_ like a betting man?” Jeremiah scoffed, cradling Bruce’s cheek. “No.”

“That’s a relief, because I wouldn’t know where to put my money,” Bruce said, blushing.

“Might’ve been a dare,” Jeremiah said, with an abrupt flash of insight. “Jerome can’t resist.”

Bruce shrugged. “I don’t think Five would suggest one. If it was, someone at Jeri’s did it.”

“Jerome was never what you’d call great at reading between the lines,” Jeremiah went on. “He prefers things to be spelled out. Is Five direct?”

“Usually,” Bruce said. “But I’ve seen him think he’s being clear, when really he’s just…not.”

“Oh, to have been a fly on _that_ wall,” Jeremiah said derisively. “There’s your answer.”

“They don’t seem to have trouble communicating with each other,” said Bruce. “What did Jerome want at Jeri’s that morning?”

“A no-frills explanation of why we were there with Jim,” Jeremiah replied. “He also wanted to know why I hadn’t congratulated him.”

“On what, getting married?” Bruce asked. “I said it for both of us. I didn’t think you were…” He grimaced. “I guess when you told Jerome he made more of himself than you’d expected, that could’ve been interpreted as petty.”

“Jerome would read _any_ words or actions from me like that,” Jeremiah said, resigned.

“Were you being petty?” Bruce asked, turning his head, pressing a kiss into Jeremiah’s palm.

Jeremiah rolled his eyes. “To a degree,” he admitted, running his thumb over Bruce’s lips.

“Jerome might not know how to show it,” Bruce said slowly, “but he cares what you think.”

Jeremiah shrugged. “I think they’re two peas in a psychopathic pod. We’re…an equivalent.”

Bruce looked troubled. “Alfred had me speak to a child psychologist. After my parents…”

“I’m guessing that didn’t last long?” Jeremiah ventured. “You pushed the clinician away?”

Nodding, Bruce sprawled on him, resting his head on Jeremiah’s shoulder. “You see a lot.”

Jeremiah stared at the ceiling, caressing Bruce’s nape. “The irony of this situation’s not lost.”

“They diagnosed me with PTSD, which…I’d been reading, even I knew that,” Bruce said disdainfully. “PPD-NOS, too. Special interests, studiousness, hyperfocus, but not quite consistent with Autism Spectrum criteria.”

Jeremiah closed his eyes, remembering something one of his grandmother’s colleagues had said.

“My mother refused to take Jerome and me to a psychologist when we were eight, even after a family friend asserted that Jerome had ADHD and that I was likely autistic. Gotham General was running a study, looking at psychological disparities in identical twins. Mom wouldn’t even do it for the money. I was disappointed, because I wanted to see what a laboratory looked like.”

“What did Jerome think?” Bruce asked, his grasp on Jeremiah’s upper arm tightening sharply.

Jeremiah opened his eyes wide, shocked at the recollection. “He begged her not to make us go.”

“I know you’re telling me the truth,” Bruce said quietly. “Were you angry with him for that?”

Jeremiah tightened his jaw. “What do _you_ think? He was always ruining opportunities for us. Even if Mom wasn’t abusive toward us at that stage, her brother certainly was.” He was startled at the vitriol welling up in his chest. “Her lovers were a mixed bag. Several were kind. Cicero was one of them, although…he was always harder on Jerome during our lessons.”

“For not paying attention?” Bruce asked, with such calm patience that it didn’t feel like prying.

Shaking his head, Jeremiah resisted surrendering to the infuriating sting in his sensitive eyes.

“For paying too much,” he said. “For asking endless questions, ones Cicero couldn’t answer.”

Bruce appeared to be lost in thought. “That checks out. Jerome doesn’t always retain information, so he doesn’t hesitate to ask.”

“If anything, I was the bad student, daydreaming and drawing in class,” Jeremiah continued. “I was quieter, and therefore rarely accused.”

“I can relate,” Bruce said, rubbing the spot on Jeremiah’s arm that he’d been squeezing. “I was like that at Gotham Academy, before I switched to studying at home. Reading under my desk, keeping notebooks my teachers always brought up in conferences with Alfred.”

“Notebooks,” Jeremiah echoed, trying to imagine it. “Those must really have been something.”

Bruce sat up, straddling Jeremiah. “There are some here. I kept lots, and for so many reasons.”

Jeremiah blinked up at him, heart stuttering. “You don’t have to show me anything that’s too—”

“Just a second,” Bruce said, rising, vanishing down the hall toward the bedroom. “I might…”

Jeremiah woke from his half-doze when Bruce returned, sat down on the edge of the sofa, and set a composition book on Jeremiah’s chest.

“Most of the best were lost in the explosion,” Bruce said wistfully, “but this one is…eventful.”

Jeremiah sat up, flipping the notebook open in his lap. Bruce’s pre-teen handwriting was tidier than Jeremiah’s had ever been at that age.

“These drawings,” he said, indicating the hellish, mesmerizing cityscapes in the upper margins.

Bruce looked like he was in pain. “Haunted by prophecies,” he said darkly. “Don’t rub it in.”

“I was _going_ to say that your sketches and Jerome’s are the same kind of surreal.”

Nodding reticently, Bruce stared out the plate-glass windows into inky darkness. “I know.”

“The way your mind works is…somewhere between his and mine,” Jeremiah said pensively.

Bruce drew his legs up and rested his chin on his knees. “Jerome and I have a lot in common.”

“You’re not obsessed with having an audience,” said Jeremiah. “You’d rather work unseen.”

“Sometimes I can’t tell whether you genuinely like having an audience or not,” Bruce replied.

“I didn’t think I wanted one,” Jeremiah lamented, setting the notebook aside, “until I met you.”

“Wanting the eyes of one person isn’t the same as wanting the eyes of an entire city,” Bruce said.

“Jerome enjoyed knowing that all of Gotham was watching,” Jeremiah went on, “but now… _huh_. He’s given it up.”

“He hasn’t incited any chaos since meeting Five,” Bruce agreed, articulating the unspoken.

“Might have something to do with Jim granting all of us amnesty,” Jeremiah said. “He’d do anything to make sure Five doesn’t go to Arkham. I doubt it’s for his own sake. He didn’t mind being there as much as you’d think.”

“He had a guaranteed audience on the inside,” said Bruce. “Never had to work as hard for it.”

Jeremiah tugged Bruce into his arms. “Why are we still talking about this? We’re engaged.”

Bruce gave him a rueful smile. “You’re right,” he said, sprawling on him. “Let’s celebrate.”

“We sort of did that pre-emptively,” Jeremiah pointed out. “Romantic picnic by the lake.”

“I don’t think it counts,” said Bruce, contrarily. “Proposal wasn’t our premeditated intent.”

“I’m too tired to go out,” Jeremiah said, holding him close. “Rain check until tomorrow?”

“We don’t have to go anywhere,” Bruce replied, endearingly tetchy. “We could, I don’t know…keep talking? Watch something?”

Jeremiah laughed in spite of himself, hugging Bruce tight. “We’re old and boring, dear heart.”

“When you were young, did you enjoy _Wizard of Oz_ as much as Jerome?” Bruce asked.

Grudgingly, Jeremiah nodded. “It was one of the only films we could agree on without squabbling, so adults often used it to keep us occupied.”

“I haven’t seen it that much,” Bruce continued thoughtfully, “and not for a really long time.”

“There’d be no harm in it,” Jeremiah sighed, not about to admit he might fall asleep if they were to watch. “We ought to be able to find it.”

“Jerome and Five streamed it on Amazon Prime Video,” Bruce said. “I got the email receipt.”

“Then we’d still have access, regardless whether they rented or purchased,” Jeremiah replied.

They stayed awake until the Cowardly Lion joined Dorothy’s disaster D&D party, which had made Jeremiah apprehensive in childhood. Shortly thereafter, Bruce dozed off against Jeremiah’s chest, so Jeremiah didn’t feel guilty about following his example.

When Jeremiah woke, it was to the sight of Bruce sitting up with Jeremiah’s feet in his lap. On the screen, the Wicked Witch was skywriting _SURRENDER DOROTHY_ above Emerald City. Jeremiah recalled the first time he’d realized the swirls were words.

“Silly question, but is she asking Dorothy to surrender,” Bruce wondered aloud, “or asking Emerald City to surrender Dorothy _to_ her?”

“I always thought the latter due to lack of a comma,” Jeremiah said, “but I could be giving too much credit by assuming intentional nuance.”

Bruce waited until Dorothy and her friends had fled with the crowd to hit pause. He sighed.

“Why so forlorn?” Jeremiah asked, sitting up. He swung his legs down and scooted over, putting an arm around Bruce’s shoulders. “Bruce?”

“We’ll need to decide if they’ll make the guest list,” Bruce said. “I’m sure you’d rather not—”

“If we don’t send an invite, they’ll show up anyway,” Jeremiah replied. “Just like we did to them.”


	3. The Dressed Altar

Jerome appreciated the fact that Five, on the days he rose early, never expected him to get up at the same time. Five often remained in bed after waking, or came back to bed once he’d fetched something to eat from the kitchen. Usually, he brought enough for both of them.

Dozing next to Five while he drank tea and read, or did whatever, was one of Jerome’s favorite things. This morning, the faint click of a controller suggested he was engrossed in one of the many video games they’d recently bought. Well, that _Bruce_ had bought.

Jerome rolled over, slinging an arm across Five’s knees. He kissed Five’s hipbone, which drew a comical gasp of surprise from Five as he dropped the controller on Jerome’s arm. It didn’t hurt so much as make Jerome wonder if he had ruined Five’s gameplay strategy.

“Sorry,” Jerome mumbled, hiding his face against the silk of Five’s kimono bunched in his lap.

Five fumbled with the controller, in a hurry to pause whatever he was playing. “For what?”

“Messin’ up your boss fight or whatever,” Jerome said, turning his head, cracking one eye enough to see that Five had removed and set aside his bulky, expensive headphones. “Did I?” he asked.

Five put his hand on Jerome’s neck, massaging there until Jerome relaxed. “No. Take a look.”

Jerome propped himself on one elbow, squinting at the screen. “What am I lookin’ at, princess?”

“Oh,” Five said, appearing to realize something. “You’ve never seen me shop in _Animal Crossing_ before, huh?” He took a Pop-Tart off his plate on the nightstand, handing it to Jerome. “It’s warm-ish.”

“You know what I like,” Jerome sighed, pushing himself into a sitting position. He ate the entire s’more flavored pastry as he watched Five flip through a bunch of shirts and hats with various outrageous prices marked beneath them, tapping Five’s arm when he landed on an expensive item that looked like a doll’s face. “What’s that? Why is it $2,400?”

“Bells, not bucks,” Five said, purchasing the item with a click of a button. “Watch this,” he went on, and proceeded to outfit his character with it. “This mask’s not her style, but it’s your kind of creepy.”

“I’ve seen something like that,” Jerome said, brushing off his fingers, “but, uh…nope. Lost it.”

Five set the controller aside with his headphones. “I looked it up when I first saw it,” he said, grabbing his phone off the nightstand, typing something into his browser search. “It’s a Japanese theater mask.”

“Kabuki?” Jerome asked hopefully as Five scrolled. “Wait. That uses face paint, not masks.”

Five nodded, turning the phone so Jerome could see the screen. “It’s a Noh mask. Ko-omote.”

One of the masks, pictured below the one Jerome was meant to be looking at, stirred Jerome’s memory. Where Ko-omote was the smooth, expressionless face of a young woman, the mask he now remembered had horns and twisted features. Its pointed teeth were bared.

“That one,” Jerome said, pointing at it. “I stole a pair of cufflinks shaped like that. I was wearin’ those when I…” He frowned in distaste. “When I went off the roof, but I dunno if I was buried in ’em.”

Five looked fascinated. He turned the phone back toward himself, scrolling so he could read.

“It says her name is Hannya. She was a woman who went mad and turned into a demon.”

“Shoulda known that,” Jerome sighed, “but didn’t at the time. I was always interested in Japanese stuff—weapons, old samurai films. Wish I could remember where the cufflinks came from. I really liked those.”

Five thrust his phone into Jerome’s hands, climbing out of bed. “Hang on a second,” he said.

Jerome watched him rush to the walk-in closet, startled when Five began to frantically tear through hangers on his side of it. He wondered if he ought to intervene, shifting to the edge of the bed. Five getting that worked up was rarely a good sign.

“Sweet pea?” Jerome ventured. “We don’t have to talk about this if it’s gonna make you sad.”

“It’s not that,” Five said breathlessly, finally yanking a hanger off the rail. He came back to the bed—waving, of all things, the card-suit-adorned leather jacket that had belonged to Harley. “Last night, at the club,” Five went on, rummaging inside the jacket, “I felt something. I didn’t even know this had an inside pocket until…” He withdrew a satin drawstring pouch. “I didn’t look through it, because it was too dark at the bar. And then you asked me to dance when you got back from throwing that jerk who hit on me into the alley, so…”

Jerome watched Five drop the jacket on the floor, hardly prepared when Five took an excited running leap onto the bed beside him. He watched Five pick at the fraying, double-knotted bow that held the bag shut, realizing he’d better refrain from asking questions.

“I texted Harley after we got home,” Five went on, gradually loosening the strings. “I would’ve called her, but you’d already passed out. I asked her if she left a bag of jewelry—” he shook the bag, which clinked “—in her old coat. She said it was shit she stole before the city got cut off, that I should just keep it. I couldn’t get the knot undone. I was tired, so I just put it back in the pocket, hung up the coat, and came to bed.”

“What made you think of it?” Jerome asked uncertainly, watching Five dump the bag’s contents.

“The thing about the city getting cut off,” Five explained, picking through the pile of tangled chains and rings. “When I thought about that, I realized where she was that day, and one of the things she must’ve done for Jeremiah.” He appeared to stop breathing as he plucked something from amidst the plunder, and then held it up. “Is this…”

Jerome took the cufflink with shaking fingers. The mask—black and white molded glass, its wrought silver setting adorned with three tiny bluish cabochons—was indeed Hannya. He wondered if he’d looked it up at the time.

“Guess I’ll have to add grave robbing to the list of offenses,” he said. “Is the other one there?”

Five tore apart the remainder of the tangle, breaking several chains while he was at it. “No.”

“What I said a few minutes ago stands,” Jerome insisted, setting the cufflink on his pillow. He swept the loot aside so Five couldn’t continue to angrily dig through it, pulling Five into his arms. “I don’t want you to get upset. One’s better than none.”

Five nodded miserably, looking anything but convinced. He reached over Jerome’s arm and took the cufflink off the pillow, studying it.

“Glass, maybe resin,” Five said, tapping the miniature mask with his thumbnail. “The gems might be turquoise, or a stone I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter, precious,” Jerome said, kissing Five’s cheek. “You’re the reason I got it back.”

Five closed his hand around the cufflink, lifting his head to kiss Jerome with shocking intensity.

“What if Jeri found the other one when she found the book?” he gasped. “We have to ask—”

“Hey,” Jerome murmured, bumping his nose against Five’s. “Don’t you worry about that.”

“But it’s bullshit!” Five seethed, his eyes glittering with tears. “They took this from you!”

Jerome pried the cufflink out of Five’s grasp, dropping it on the floor next to the jacket.

“Yeah, but we took stuff, too,” he admitted grudgingly, “including Harley’s jacket, from Arkham. Suddenly I feel like that kinda makes us even.”

“What if Jeremiah was the one who told her to take anything valuable when she...” Five swallowed contritely. “Anything valuable you had on you?”

“I’ve just realized, if there are two things I know about my brother,” Jerome reassured him, “they’re...heh, these are funny. One, he doesn’t have time for petty theft. Two, even if he did, he doesn’t like my taste enough to have _bothered_. This smacks of Ms. Quinn—uh, Ms. Ecco at the time—gettin’ a case of itchy fingers.” He gestured at the rest of the haul. “Look at that crap. Face it, even the cufflinks were cheap.”

Five scrubbed at his eyes, sniffling, and then laughed. “That kind of makes me feel better. They were yours, though. You _liked_ them.”

“Yeah, and I got one back,” Jerome said. “That’s enough to show a jeweler. Hell, why not a whole new set in solid platinum? Sky’s the limit.”

Five nodded thoughtfully, resting his forehead against Jerome’s. “I’m getting fitted for that dress today. I think you should get something nice, too.”

Caressing the small of Five’s back, Jerome couldn’t help but think how fitting it was that Five’s favorite garment for lounging around was a shabby vintage kimono. He never looked anything but stunning in it, and now was no exception.

“I might keep it as it is,” Jerome said as Five pushed him onto his back. “A sort of reminder.”

“I can understand why you wouldn’t want to forget anything,” Five said, bending to kiss him.

“It…doesn’t bother you, like, at _all_ that I was dead a couple of times?” Jerome asked.

“So was I, probably,” Five reminded him, with spite Jerome recognized as meant for Strange.

Jerome kissed him back, relieved that Five tasted like Pop-Tarts, too. “Perfect for me, then.”

Five raked Jerome’s hair back from his forehead, scratching his scalp. “Hey. Good morning.”

“Guess we skipped that part,” Jerome said, cradling Five’s face in both hands. “G’morning.”

“Did you kill that asshole?” Five asked, nuzzling into Jerome’s palm. “Did Jeri catch you?”

“I asked if you wanted to tag along,” Jerome teased, “but you were too busy talkin’ to Avi.”

“Damn right,” Five agreed, bending to bite Jerome’s neck. “We were gonna cover for you.”

Shuddering beneath Five’s weight and the sting of Five’s teeth, Jerome panted, “Yeah, I did.”

“Kill him?” asked Five, adorably breathless, hastily untying the robe of his kimono. “How?”

“Slit his throat,” Jerome said, wrapping his hand around Five before Five could touch himself.

“With— _fuck_ , with what?” Five pressed shakily, rocking into Jerome’s touch, already frantic.

“Straight razor,” Jerome whispered in Five’s ear, holding him close. “Your favorite punch line.”

Five shuddered, clamping down against Jerome until he couldn’t help moaning aloud. “ _Good_.”

“Only the best for my baby,” Jerome sighed, rubbing Five’s back as he slumped. “Took pics.”

Five nipped Jerome’s earlobe this time, his breath shallow and hot. “Want me to suck you off?”

Jerome nodded, too eager, closing his eyes tightly as Five kissed his chest. He was glad he’d fallen asleep naked, which he hadn’t done for a couple weeks, not since the night they watched _The Wizard of Oz_.

“You’re gonna delete those pics,” Five said, teasingly licking the crease of Jerome’s thigh.

“Sure thing, after I show ’em— _jeez_ , wow—to you, how’s that?” Jerome laughed.

Five nodded coyly, the corners of his bright eyes crinkling as he took Jerome in his mouth.

Jerome melted against the mattress, combing his fingers through Five’s hair. He was lucky Five never minded when it took him a while, that he could just concentrate on how indescribable it felt to be so _loved_. 

When Jerome came, Five held Jerome’s hands down at his sides so he couldn’t attempt to stifle his overwhelmed groan. He didn’t get his breath under control for a long time, but Five didn’t mind that, either.

“I like hearing you,” Five murmured, snuggled up to Jerome afterward, kissing his damp temple.

Jerome hadn’t quite caught his breath, but he squeezed Five against his chest. “Love ya, babe.”

“I know,” Five said matter-of-factly, patting Jerome’s cheek. “We’ve gotta meet the girls soon.”

“The girls?” Jerome echoed, tensing, and then relaxed when he realized who Five meant. “Aha.”

“I’m gonna give Ecco back her scrap, minus the cufflink,” Five said decisively. “It’s useless.”

“You’re still a better person than I’ve ever been,” Jerome teased, playfully tapping Five’s nose.

“I am not,” Five said, rolling his eyes fondly. “Show me the photos, and then let’s shower?”

While Five lounged on the bed and swiped through the images, Jerome went to the kitchen. He scrubbed off his belly with the nearest dish towel, dropped it in the sink, and put on the electric kettle. He got back from the laundry room with his robe just in time to catch it boiling.

Jerome returned to the bedroom with Five’s favorite mug full of Earl Grey, only to find Five kneeling on the floor with the cufflink in his hand. He glanced somberly up at Jerome, his eyes wet.

“I’m mad at Harley for losing the other one,” Five said, his inflection tellingly flat. “I might shout at her, but I don’t _want_ to.”

“C’mere, princess,” Jerome said, setting the mug on the nightstand. He bent, helped Five to his feet, and got him settled back on the bed. “Think you might not be up for goin’ out? We don’t have to.”

Five gratefully accepted the mug when Jerome put it in his hands. “I’m…afraid of that, yeah.”

Jerome grabbed Five’s favorite comb off the nightstand, tending to Five’s hair and braiding it back while Five gulped the tea in distress. Jerome should’ve known Five had been left too high-strung. He couldn’t get Five to set the cufflink down.

“You know we can reschedule with the seamstress, right?” Jerome asked, finishing Five’s braid.

Five nodded miserably into his mug. “I think we’re gonna have to. Not like there’s a deadline.”

Tugging Five to sit back against his chest, Jerome rubbed Five’s arms. “What else can I do?”

“Let the girls know?” Five asked plaintively, yawning as Jerome took the empty mug from him.

“Go back to sleep,” Jerome said, tucking him under the covers, “and I take care of everything else you’re worried about. How’s that sound?”

Five nodded against the pillow, eyes already closed. “Thanks,” he whispered, opening his hand.

Jerome picked up the cufflink. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it until Five fell asleep.

Before leaving the penthouse, Jerome showered, got dressed, and left a note for Five on the nightstand. He called the seamstress to cancel, and then called Jeri to let her know Five was going to be on his own for a bit while Jerome took care of an errand. She was usually prepared to hear from either one of them at a moment’s notice—usually Five, when Jerome was out.

Wandering the city without recognition wasn’t something Jerome could manage as often as he’d like, although a rendezvous with friends at the Iceberg wasn’t any reason to hide. He parked the Mustang out back and walked in through the front door like it was nothing.

Upstairs, at the VIP bar, Ivy and Harley were waiting. They looked put-out to see him alone.

“Five had what you might call too much excitement for one morning,” Jerome said, producing the cufflink out of thin air. “Anybody recognize this?”

“Sure do,” Harley said, knocking back what was left of her whiskey. “I took those off your dead ass after kickin’ you out of the coffin. Mostly for shits an’ giggles, but also in case J wanted some kinda trophy.” She huffed apologetically. “I regret it now that I know ya. Happy?”

Ivy thwapped Harley’s arm with a stack of napkins. “Jeez, genius, what do _you_ think?”

“Eh, what’s a plundered grave between future friends,” Jerome said, resting one elbow against the bar. “Only trouble is, the other one wasn’t—” he drew the satin bag from his pocket and slapped it on the bar “—in here.”

Harley instantly dumped out the bag and picked through the tangled chains and rings, frowning.

“Who the fuck broke a couple of these?” she asked, shaking the chains at Jerome. “I liked ’em!”

Jerome sighed, feigning regret. “I liked my cufflinks, but this why we can’t have nice things.”

Ivy had been watching the proceedings with undisguised amusement, slurping her fruity cocktail.

“I shoulda been recording this,” she said. “Y’know, so I can show Five what dingbats you are.”

“Princess already knows that,” Jerome scoffed, watching Harley shove the scrap back in its bag.

“Okay, look,” Harley said, tucking the bag into the back pocket of her shorts. “I took both of those fugly things out of your cuffs and put ’em in here. I only fished through the bag, like, a few times, so I musta lost the other one when I did that.”

“And where _were_ you when you did that?” Jerome prompted, lending his tone some menace. “Don’t tell me it was Arkham, because Brucie and my bleeding heart brother are nearly done renovating that rat trap.”

Harley looked at him like he was nuts, and she’d be right. “Uh, no. Strange took my clothes while I was unconscious, remember? Took _all_ our clothes and stuck us in those moth-eaten uniforms. Either Tetch and Crane went through my shit and lost one of your cufflinks while they were at it, or I dropped that stupid thing when I was livin’ the high life at Old Town Church with those goons J inherited from you.”

Jerome caught his breath, sticking the cufflink in his pocket. “What’s the status of that dump?”

“The church?” Ivy asked, using her straw to swirl ice cubes in her glass. “It’s all boarded up.”

Harley poured herself another finger of whiskey, which was likely going to make Penguin livid.

“So, it’s not likely anyone’s messed with the place?” Jerome asked, breaking into a slow grin.

“I don’t like where you’re takin’ this,” Harley said, drinking all the whiskey in one swallow.

“You mean where I’m takin’ _you_ ,” Jerome replied, pointing at each of them in turn.

“I don’t understand why you’d go to the trouble to look for it,” Ivy said, putting her glass and Harley’s behind the bar for Penguin’s evening staff to deal with. “You don’t strike me as the type who’d bother.”

Jerome tilted his head, giving her a warning glance. “If I was doin’ it for me, I’d go alone. Less attached to findin’ it on my own account. I’d probably miss it. Don’t tell anyone, but my eyes aren’t that great.”

“You want to find it for…who, Five?” Ivy asked, her expression softening. “Aw, that’s sweet.”

“Five doesn’t strike me as the type to wear cufflinks,” Harley said, puzzled. “Why does he—”

“My baby was too upset to explain,” Jerome seethed, “and that’s all I fuckin’ need to know.”

“What’s your problem?” Ivy asked Harley. “It’s a sentimentality thing.” She slid off her stool, offering Jerome her hand. “I’m in. I’ll help ya find it.”

Cautiously, Jerome shook her hand. “There better not be some kinda trick involved, Red.”

Harley burst into laughter for about a minute straight, until Jerome and Ivy were both staring.

“No, just— _hah_ —don’t mind me, but seriously,” she wheezed, hysterical, “ _you_ callin’ _her_ —”

“Yeah, hon, we get it,” Ivy said, patting Harley’s back. “Pot, kettle, black. Gingers, am I right?”

“Whatever,” Jerome said, pushing off the bar, striding ahead of them. “I’ll drive us to Old Town.”

“Guess it’s kinda sweet,” Harley said while they were in the elevator, “that you’d do this for him.”

Jerome just stared at her. “Uh, hello. You were _there_ when we got together, remember?”

“I’d rather not,” Harley said between gritted teeth. “But yeah. You fell hook, line, and sinker.”

“You make it sound like it’s a scam,” Ivy replied, elbowing her. “We got together then, too.”

“Arkham does things to your head, trust me,” Jerome said, picking up the pace when Edward, hanging around the downstairs bar for no good reason, spotted them. “Riddle-man! Hey! We were just on our way out.”

Edward followed them as far as the back door, biding his time until Jerome, pushing uselessly at the crash bar, discovered they’d need to be _let_ out. He smiled thinly, producing a security badge, swinging it.

“Outside opening hours, you can’t just waltz in or out,” Edward said. “Not that you can ever just waltz _in_ , but—look, I’m not here to stop…whatever this is from happening. We were in the trenches together. I’m just performing due diligence.”

“Must be rough when your hubby’s your boss,” Jerome cackled, elbowing him. “We’re on a quest.”

“Must be rough when _your_ spouse is related to Bruce Wayne,” Edward replied sarcastically.

“Oh, like you aren’t rollin’ in it, too,” Harley said belligerently. “We’re gonna help Jerome find somethin’ I lost when I was runnin’ that church. Somethin’ I stole from him when he couldn’t do shit about it.”

Edward, quick-minded when it counted, did the math. “Grave robbing, Ms. Quinn? _Tsk_.”

“Shout it from the rooftops, why don’t ya!” Harley snapped, and then looked at Ivy. “What crawled up my ass? Knowin’ I’m responsible for Five havin’ a meltdown over this, that’s what!”

Raising his free hand placatingly in front of him, Edward tapped his badge to the security console.

“Thanks, Ed,” Ivy gushed on their way out, leaning to kiss him on the cheek. “I knew you’d get it.”

“Wish I didn’t,” Edward muttered, and that was the last thing they heard before the door slammed.

Even on a low-key day, the Mustang got more attention than Jerome thought was warranted. In the back seat, Harley and Ivy bickered over where they should start their search, with Harley ultimately winning the argument because she’d been in the church more recently than Ivy. Apparently Ivy’s parents had gone there when she was a kid, and taken her a few times, or something.

“Everybody out,” Jerome said, screeching to a halt in the alley behind the church. “I’m gonna assume we’re all armed, because only an idiot comes to this part of town without a weapon.”

“Does Five know you’re doin’ this?” Harley asked, leading Jerome and Ivy over to the storm doors, kicking them. “Hope he’s not alone.”

“Jeri’s on call,” Jerome said, drawing the pistol he’d tucked in his jacket. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Your humor’s gotten more multifaceted and subtle,” Ivy said cheerfully, taking note of the sealed-off regular door to her right. “Watch this!”

Jerome had never seen Ivy’s powers in action, but it was really something to watch the Virginia creeper eating into the church’s crumbling brick wall take on a life of its own. He watched as the suddenly overgrown vines’ invasive roots encased the door and ripped it off its hinges.

“Remind me to come up with a legit scheme where we can use that,” Jerome marveled, peering into the damp, mildew-smelling corridor they were now free to enter. “Lead the way,” he said to Harley, stepping aside for her.

“Keeping Five happy isn’t legit?” Ivy teased, keeping pace with Jerome as he dashed after Harley down the concrete stairs to the church’s basement.

“You know what I mean,” Jerome muttered, distracted by the fact they’d descended to a kind of rec center beneath the church. “Huh, this is weird.”

“The pool’s been drained for a long, long time,” Harley said, pushing open a door just ahead of them, and then spread her arms wide. “Would ya look at that? The bloodstains are still here!”

Jerome stared down into the detritus littering the empty, blue-and-white tiled pool’s bottom. There weren’t just splashes of long-dried blood everywhere. There were long-rotted human remains, to the tune of about four or five bodies Jerome could count.

“What the hell?” Ivy demanded, shoving Harley in the side. “I’m not digging through that!”

“Nobody said you had to,” Harley cajoled, kissing Ivy’s cheek. “Leave the dirty work to us.”

“I’ll just look up here while you dive in,” Ivy said, starting to traipse the periphery of the pool.

Resentful of his body’s lingering limitations, Jerome descended one of the rusted ladders while Harley flat-out jumped down from the edge. By the time Jerome had feet on the bottom, Harley was already shuffling around in the decayed newspapers and scattered bones.

“I oversaw a lot of trials down here,” Harley told him, kicking one of the dried-out corpses’ skulls clean off. “Had to get hopefuls to prove themselves somehow. It was always fun, seein’ which one would get the bullet.”

“Russian Roulette with a twist? Somethin’ tells me I would’ve had fun with you,” Jerome said, bending to examine a pile of ash. “What makes you think my property’s down here?”

“One of the times I was inductin’ a fresh batch, I got into a scuffle with one of ’em,” Harley explained, making a beeline to the periphery with an odd light in her eyes. “Right over here. I was carryin’ the bag on me, _and_ …” She dropped to a crouch, rummaging through some more deteriorating newspaper, and made a sound of dismay. “Holy shit.”

Jerome rushed to her side, peering over her shoulder. “And what?” he prompted impatiently.

Harley popped to her feet, almost knocking into him, her hands folded together in front of her.

“And I had that little bag of treasure on me,” she said, grinning wolfishly as she unfolded her hands to reveal what they concealed. “They knocked it outta my jacket, scatterin’ my loot everywhere. I was takin’ chains and rings off the dead ones, see?”

Jerome took the cufflink from her palm, rummaging in his pocket for its match. “Sure do.”

Ivy had taken interest in their antics and sat down on the side of the pool just above them.

“You found it already?” she asked gleefully. “No fuckin’ way! Five’s gonna be thrilled.”

“Hold these a sec,” Jerome said, fobbing both cufflinks off on Harley. He removed the cufflinks he’d worn out, a dull set of onyx ones that had probably belonged to Bruce. “Trade ya.”

Harley handed him the newly reunited Hannya set and took the onyx ones. “These are expensive,” she said, examining the metal closely.

“I couldn’t care less what they cost,” Jerome replied, placing the leering masks in his cuffs.

“Yours or the fancy ones?” Ivy asked, offering Harley a hand so she could climb right out.

“Both,” Jerome said, dashing to the ladder so he could climb out. “Either. Take your pick.”

Both of the girls were waiting at the top. They each seized one of his wrists, hauling him the rest of the way up. For a fleeting moment, he thought maybe they were going to throw him back in.

“Can’t let ya fall, can we,” Harley said with a wink, dusting him off. “Five would fuckin’ kill us.”

“I’d invite you back to the penthouse to say hi,” Jerome said, following Harley as she led them back the way they’d come in, “but Five is…”

“Just hug him for me,” Ivy said, punching Jerome in the shoulder as they climbed up the stairs.

“I will,” Jerome said vaguely, watching Harley turn to face them once they’d emerged into daylight. He shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes grudgingly downcast, scuffing at the patchy gravel. “Thanks.”

“Sheesh, you’re more polite than J ever was,” Harley said, waving him off. “Just take us back.”

Once he’d dropped the girls back at the Iceberg, Jerome made a detour for some flowers. He didn’t like strolling into a convenience store alone these days, but he never hesitated to buy from that old woman on the corner of Third and Dumas.

On getting home, Jerome found Five awake and seated on the sofa with his knees drawn up. He was watching _The Wizard of Oz_.

“How ya doin’, sweet pea?” Jerome asked, handing Five the bundle of white roses. There had been six of them, but Jerome hadn’t hesitated to leave one with the old lady as a tip. “We’re still in black and white stretch, I see.”

Five buried his nose in them and hit pause, tossing the remote on the floor. “I’m okay,” he said.

Jerome took the flowers gently out of Five’s grasp, setting them on the coffee table. He held his arms open, and Five twisted sideways into them.

“In hindsight, I shouldn’t have left you here like that,” Jerome mumbled into Five’s hair. “Sorry.”

“Got your note,” Five said, his mouth pressed to the scar on Jerome’s neck. “I didn’t call Jeri.”

Brushing Five’s cheek, Jerome held his wrist at eye-level for Five. “Went to get you a surprise.”

Five stared at Jerome’s cuff. He sat back in Jerome’s lap, grabbed Jerome’s other hand, and brought Jerome’s wrists together between them.

“How did you…” Five touched the left cufflink, scratching at a fleck of blood on its cheek.

“With a little help from our friends,” Jerome said, happy to see Five smile, and kissed him.


	4. The Lifting Light

Bruce got down to business reviewing the latest transactions on his previously least-used credit card account while Jeremiah stood, cell phone in hand, staring out the plate-glass window. He knew it would take Jeremiah a while to work up his nerve.

“Want to guess how much they’ve charged since last time I checked?” Bruce asked, attempting to lighten the mood.

Jeremiah made a sound that might have been either amusement or derision.

“Seeing as they’ve diversified their sources of entertainment...more than three grand, less than ten. Unless they’ve paid the dress in full.”

“There’s a single charge of _over_ three thousand, so you might be right about that,” Bruce admitted, tallying as he scrolled. “The rest comes to another three thousand. That’s far less than I would’ve expected.”

“I told you gaming would keep them occupied,” Jeremiah said, sounding more smug than fretful. “Anyway, I cheated.”

“You logged into the account before I did?” Bruce asked, closing the browser.

Jeremiah began idly tapping his fingernails against the screen of his phone.

“No,” he said sheepishly. “I’ve been keeping tabs when I play _Animal Crossing_. I don’t think Five realizes he’s interacting with me.”

Bruce was aware Jeremiah had been playing, mostly because he tended to lie on the sofa, reading or writing, with his legs across Jeremiah’s lap while he played. Occasionally watching what Jeremiah was up to on the screen was a baffling, yet amusing diversion.

Suddenly, the fact that Jeremiah’s avatar frequently visited a place called Emerald Island made a lot more sense. The avatar in residence had blue hair swept up in a bun and always wore a Japanese theater mask.

“Huh,” Bruce said. “Five never struck me as the hair dye type. The mask tracks, though. He was with the Court of Owls for a while, and then worked at the Foxglove after impersonating me ended badly for him.”

Jeremiah, who’d begun to purposefully type something into his phone, smiled in wry amusement.

“From what I saw when Harley let slip to you and Ivy that I’d been planning on coloring my hair, I never struck you as the hair dye type, either. Don’t you dare think I’m going to let you forget about that.”

“It’s fun you went with green for your avatar,” Bruce said. “I wouldn’t mind if you did it for real.”

Jeremiah went back to typing. “The look on your face suggested you more than just didn’t mind.”

“Are you calling him, finally?” Bruce asked, scooting toward one end of the sofa. “Come over here while you do.”

Jeremiah sighed and put the phone to his ear, making his way to the sofa. “If you insi—Hello? No, this isn’t Bruce. This number isn’t even his.” He rolled his eyes and sat down. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Of _course_ I’m allowed to have my own phone.”

Turning the laptop toward Jeremiah, Bruce pointed at a transaction. _Ask?_ he mouthed.

Jeremiah squinted at the screen. “Speaking of Bruce, he’d like to know what cost you over $3,000 in one go. Was it the dress?” He stared at the figure, unblinking as Jerome launched into a cackling explanation. “A sewing machine. So that you can—what? Are you _serious_?”

Bruce blinked at the transaction, shrugged, and closed the laptop. He wasn’t about to object to new hobbies, especially not ones that involved Jerome learning a new skill. Five’s influence was changing him in unexpected ways.

“The seamstress quoted you twice that for the dress,” repeated Jeremiah, flatly, for Bruce’s benefit. “So you asked her what machine model she uses, went on your merry way, and then broke in after hours to steal the fabrics she pinned on Five. Right, because that makes _perfect_ sense. You could’ve just spent the six grand. Did you honestly think we’d mind?”

Keeping a straight face was the hardest part, so Bruce turned his head in the opposite direction and pressed the back of his hand to his lips.

Jeremiah suddenly recoiled, holding the phone several inches from his ear. The voice shouting down the line wasn’t Jerome’s anymore.

“I guess making Jerome explain his aspirations in the realm of stitchery was sufficient cause for Five to let me know my cover in the game’s been blown,” Jeremiah sighed, lifting the phone back to his ear. “Yes, you’ve made that clear, but how did you—I see. Put him back on.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in resigned irritation, eyes flying open once Jerome was back on the line. “How did you know it was me? It’s not as if I went with a name you’d recog—the hair? Come on, Jerome. I never told you about that.”

Bruce lost his cool when Five shouted, loudly enough to be heard, _No, but Harley did!_

“Fine,” Jeremiah said, gritting his teeth. “You found me out. Oh, you want to know why only _now_? After that stunt, I should make you guess.”

 _Ask if you can talk to Bruce!_ Five shouted in the background. _He’ll tell you if that asshat won’t!_

“Charming,” Jeremiah sighed, handing the phone to Bruce, dusting off his hands. “All yours.”

Bruce sighed and took the phone, reluctantly pressing it to his ear. “Who am I speaking with?”

“Heya, Brucie,” Jerome said, sounding something approaching relieved, “ol’ buddy, ol’ pal.”

“You’re going to learn to sew?” Bruce asked, morbidly curious. “Do you think you can make—”

“Didn’t it occur to you I might already know the basics?” Jerome scoffed. “Circus brat, remember? With a mother as incompetent as mine, I had to take on a bit of everything. I even learned how to do her hair.”

Bruce was grudgingly impressed. “I guess it didn’t. That sounds like a challenging project.”

“What my baby wants, my baby gets,” Jerome said. “You must know what that’s like, huh?”

Jeremiah had left the sofa and gone back to standing in front of the window. He was tense.

“There’s something Jeremiah wanted to ask,” Bruce said. “You weren’t taking him seriously.”

“Listen, I dunno how _you_ manage to do that, let alone anybody else,” Jerome replied.

“I’ll ask on his behalf, but I’d rather give you the chance to listen,” Bruce cautioned testily.

“Five isn’t happy about the in-game spying,” Jerome countered. “Did you know about that?”

“No,” Bruce admitted, glancing over at Jeremiah, whose back was still turned. “I really didn’t.”

“I doubt he’ll try again now he’s been busted,” Jerome said. “How about you ask, bro-in-law?”

Bruce got up and went to join Jeremiah at the window, determined to include him somehow.

“Wayne Manor is mostly habitable now, so we’ll be returning to Gotham soon,” Bruce said.

“I’m no great shakes when it comes to grammar,” said Jerome, “but that’s not a question.”

“We’d like to invite you for dinner,” Bruce went on. “Or whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“We’re not _comfortable_ with anything,” Jerome shot back, “but I wanna see the place.”

“Does Five want to see it?” Bruce asked, taking hold of Jeremiah’s twitchy hand at his side.

“You leave that to me,” Jerome replied. “Why the civilized invitation? Is Jeeves makin’ you?”

“Alfred doesn’t know about it,” Bruce told him, which was true. “We have an announcement.”

Jerome whistled. “The invitation, or the announcement? You might wanna call him next.”

“It’s nothing anyone needs to be concerned with until we get back,” Bruce insisted, reassured when Jeremiah squeezed his hand in agreement. “I hope you can convince Five to accompany you.”

“If I can’t, you might have to make a house call,” Jerome said, and Five asked, _Can’t what?_

“We could do that if need be,” Bruce said cautiously. “Are the two of you getting out enough?”

Jerome clicked his tongue critically. “Isn’t that the opposite of what you want us to be doing?”

“Jeri tells me you’ve been confining your trouble to the Narrows,” Bruce replied, goading him.

There was a brief scuffle on the end of the line, and then Five said, “Nice try. Jeri’s not a narc.”

“Do you think I need to hear from Jeri to know which murders I see reported on the _Gotham Gazette_ website are yours?” Bruce asked. “Jerome’s style is distinctive, and I’m getting a feel for yours.”

“What about when we work together?” Five challenged. “Do you think that changes anything?”

“No, I don’t,” Bruce said bluntly, returning Jeremiah’s annoyed gaze. “Put Jerome back on.”

“Why don’t I get to talk to you for as long as he does?” Five asked peevishly. “Still mad at me?”

“For which thing, exactly?” Bruce sighed. “There’s no point. I need to talk to Jerome, please.”

“I’m flattered,” Jerome said, “but not so impressed with your bedside manner. Five’s crushed.”

“I’m sure he’ll get over it,” Bruce replied. “We’ll email our travel plans once they’re solidified.”

“Is that how rich folks talk about everything?” Jerome asked. “Sheesh, loosen up. See ya soon.”

Relieved that Jerome had hung up first, Bruce handed the phone back to Jeremiah. “There.”

“They both like you more than they like me,” Jeremiah sighed, pocketing it. “I rest my case.”

“Five hates both of us,” Bruce said, perplexed when Jeremiah dragged him past the sofa. “He just likes to remind me we have history.”

“I suspect he’s jealous of how well you and Jerome seem to communicate,” Jeremiah retorted.

“I have longer history with Jerome than I have with him,” Bruce said. “Where are we going?”

“Where do you think?” Jeremiah asked, walking faster as they approached the master bedroom.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel left out,” said Bruce. “There’s a reason I wanted you to be the one to extend the invitation. You and Jerome need to talk more. He’ll keep teasing you no matter what.”

“At least he gives you shit in a way that shows a measure of respect,” Jeremiah sighed bitterly.

“He gives me shit in a way that shows he’s aware I have influence over you,” Bruce corrected.

“Yes,” Jeremiah agreed, sitting down on the edge of the bed, pulling Bruce forward with both hands, “but it’s influence I’m happy to _let_ you have. I sincerely hope it goes both ways.”

“You know that it does,” Bruce insisted, setting both hands against Jeremiah’s shoulders, pushing until Jeremiah toppled back against the mattress. “Tell me what you want.”

Jeremiah watched Bruce undress, clenching both fists in the duvet. “That’s an excellent start.”

Bruce took his time about finishing, satisfied to see Jeremiah prop himself up on his elbows. He knelt and unbuttoned Jeremiah’s trousers, glad Jeremiah was able to shrug out of his shirt for once. Bruce tugged Jeremiah’s bottom layers off, and then climbed onto the bed.

“I don’t mind if you need this for reassurance,” Bruce said, setting his hand against Jeremiah’s cheek. “Nothing can change how I feel about you. I hope what we’ve been through is proof.”

Jeremiah kissed Bruce, curling his hand around the back of Bruce’s neck, drawing him down.

“Now would be the time to back out of this,” he said against Bruce’s lips. “Do you really—”

“Don’t say that,” Bruce whispered fiercely, shifting half on top of him. “I want to marry you.”

Jeremiah made a breathy, desperate sound, the kind that usually meant he wasn’t in the mood to draw things out. Sometimes, it meant he was going to have a difficult time articulating an excess of emotion. He tipped his head back, letting Bruce suck a bruise into his neck.

“I don’t think they’ll be happy for us,” Jeremiah said. “We weren’t happy enough for them.”

“I’m glad they found each other,” Bruce admitted, kissing the mark he’d left. “Aren’t you?”

“I’m not sure how I feel about it,” Jeremiah replied. “You’re still a better person than I am.”

“I wouldn’t be here if that was true,” Bruce pointed out, shifting fully on top of him.

Jeremiah swallowed a quiet moan, sliding his arms around Bruce’s waist. “Bruce?”

Bruce nuzzled Jeremiah’s neck, grateful they were both already so painfully hard.

“What?” he gasped, shivering as he closed his eyes, letting his weight fully settle.

“Let me,” Jeremiah cajoled, flipping Bruce onto his back so fast his head spun.

“Let you what?” Bruce managed faintly, even though he had a reasonable idea what Jeremiah might mean by that. “Jeremiah?”

“Do something nice for my fiancé,” Jeremiah said, awkwardly snagging the new brand of lubricant, which they hadn’t yet tried, off the nightstand. “Even though _I’m_ not nice. You put up with so much.”

“You’re nice to me,” Bruce panted, closing his eyes tightly when Jeremiah got some of the shockingly non-sticky, vanilla-and-lemon smelling stuff in his palm. The feel of Jeremiah’s fingers on him, so much more careful than the attention he tended to give himself, made Bruce tremble uncontrollably. “That’s what—fuck, don’t _rush_ —matters.”

Jeremiah ignored Bruce’s last remark, coaxing Bruce to sit up. He helped him get situated against their pile of pristine pillows, and only grudgingly let Bruce take control of prepping him. Jeremiah’s temperature ran higher than Bruce’s at a baseline; at least they knew that now. The fevers he’d run in the immediate aftermath of the toxin had been part of the transformation in action. 

Bruce pressed into Jeremiah as deeply as his middle and index fingers could reach. “How’s that?”

“This was supposed to be about you,” Jeremiah panted indignantly, rocking back onto Bruce’s hand. “Do you want me to finish before you can even…” He seemed to lose his train of thought when Bruce withdrew his fingers, tugged Jeremiah forward by the hips, and shakily positioned himself. “Oh, dear heart. There you are. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Bruce buried his face in the crook of Jeremiah’s neck, gasping as Jeremiah did all the work. They could last a little longer than the first time they’d tried this particular configuration, although Bruce didn’t think that would be possible today. He clutched at Jeremiah’s back.

“I want you to feel good,” Bruce whined, hating the fact he couldn’t even hold his tone steady.

“Come on, don’t be such a martyr,” Jeremiah whispered, kissing Bruce’s cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Hiding his face again, Bruce tried relax now that Jeremiah wasn’t doing much more than rock in his lap, his weight pinning Bruce in place. Thinking about how good it felt to give up control for once was overwhelming. He came, shuddering through it with a choked cry.

Jeremiah clenched and stopped moving, unable to stifle his whimpering breaths in Bruce’s ear.

Bruce recovered fast enough to focus on thrusting up into him. “Do you think you can—?”

Jeremiah laughed harshly, slumping against Bruce, pinning him back against the damp pillows.

“I can’t always pull it off,” he said after a while, massaging Bruce’s nape. “Maybe next time.”

“Okay,” Bruce sighed, feeling his cheeks heat as he rested his head against Jeremiah’s shoulder.

“What I’d like to know is if _you_ can,” Jeremiah teased, breathing hotly in Bruce’s ear, nipping it.

Bruce winced, trembling pleasantly with the aftershocks it sent through him. “I don’t think so.”

“Then we’re getting old,” Jeremiah winced, rolling away from Bruce to sprawl in the pillows.

“Shut up,” Bruce said, rolling over to nestle against him. _Now_ everything felt sticky.

“Your lack of a bedside manner is comforting,” Jeremiah replied. “Not even you’re perfect.”

“Jerome’s right, you know,” Bruce said moodily. “We need to tell Alfred before we fly out.”

Nodding, Jeremiah took his turn to rest his head against Bruce’s shoulder. “Want me to do it?”

Once they’d cleaned up and napped for a while, they settled for putting Bruce’s phone on speaker. Even though they’d dialed Alfred’s number, Selina picked up, which meant she was still keeping him and Lucius company. She asked why the hell they were calling.

When Bruce told her, she said, “Jeez, it took you freaks long enough. Want me to get Alfred?”

Bruce glanced tensely at Jeremiah, realizing they were both so nervous it was almost funny.

“Now, then,” Alfred said, his voice so sudden over the static-laced line that Bruce jumped, and Jeremiah looked decidedly cross at the sudden upset. “What’s this Selina’s nattering on about? Says you’ve got something to tell us?”

Bruce took a tremulous breath. “I’ve proposed to Jeremiah. He’s accepted. Any questions?”

“It’s my fault,” Jeremiah blurted. “I might’ve gotten heavy-handed with the tasseomancy.”

“Don’t you mean tasseography?” Alfred said gravely, which set both of them on edge, and then broke down laughing. “Absolutely no questions whatsoever. Congratulations.”

“Wish I coulda seen the looks on your faces,” Selina said, having clearly put their end on speaker, too. “We were tryin’ not to lose our shit.”

“I can vouch for that fact,” Lucius said, finally making his presence known. “Congrats indeed.”

“Thanks,” Jeremiah said flatly, sagging into Bruce’s side, but he was smiling in spite of himself.

“I’m sure you would’ve lost it,” Bruce sighed, grinning so hard his face hurt. “I…yes. Thanks.”

“Not to rain on your parade,” Selina cut in, “but have you figured out how you’re gonna tell the, uh…Midtown contingent?”

Bruce knew full well she’d just willed herself not to call them something far more derogatory.

“We’re having them over for dinner when we get back,” Jeremiah said, trying to sound pleased.

“There’s your bloody announcement,” Alfred said sourly. “Just how much lead time do I get?”

“Two weeks, if that’s agreeable?” Bruce asked. “I realize this will be hardest on you, Alfred.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on it,” Lucius said wryly. “I’m sensing that Jeremiah has reservations.”

“I do,” Jeremiah agreed, “but it’s better than telling them from a distance. We’ll at least have them right there in case damage control is necessary.”

“I’m glad Bruce kept you from goin’ the whole way nuts,” Selina said. “Your brain would be a terrible thing to waste. Want me to help with that?”

“With damage control?” Bruce echoed, uneasily capturing Jeremiah’s hand. “No, I don’t…think that would be the best idea. Five is…he might…”

“The word you’re looking for is _unstable_ , and even that’s being generous,” Alfred said.

“Ivy tells me Harley has started visiting them once a week,” Selina volunteered. “Therapy.”

“What about medication?” Bruce asked, guilty with the knowledge that he and Jeremiah likely needed help, too. “She can’t prescribe yet.”

“She got one of her profs to do that,” Selina said smugly. “Dug up some choice dirt on him.”

Whether the arrangement was legal or not, Bruce could at least breathe easier knowing it was in place. Jeremiah looked at peace with it, too.

Packing and making travel arrangements for the return journey took up the better part of their last two weeks at the chalet. They spent as many of their remaining evenings as possible watching the sunset over Reschensee—eating, sketching, and talking.

They spent the eight-hour direct flight aboard Bruce’s private jet in a similar fashion, although they swapped out the less scandalous elements of lakeside idleness for watching movies and playing cards. Otherwise, the flight crew knew better than to bother them when their sleeping quarters at the back were partitioned off. They slept soundly after wine-tipsy fooling around.

On meeting them at Gotham International with Alfred, Selina was cheerfully insolent about how chipper they seemed. Lucius greeted them on their return to Wayne Manor, reporting to Jeremiah that he’d successfully worked with the construction crew to accomplish _a particular finishing touch_. 

That, Bruce hadn’t been aware of, but Jeremiah promised he’d understand soon.

Given it was late morning, Bruce sent a text to Jerome after consulting with Jeremiah, requesting his and Five’s presence for dinner in three days’ time. Cryptically, Jeremiah said that would be cutting it close. When Bruce pressed him for why he’d agreed to such a short window, insisting that they could push the invitation a week out, he told Bruce he was worrying too much.

Bruce scarcely saw Jeremiah for the rest of that day and most of the next. He finally came to bed on their second night home—which was the night before dinner was set to take place—exhausted, but pleased with himself. Tense with unanswered questions, Bruce watched Jeremiah sleep.

Jeremiah was still in bed when Bruce woke, warm and willing when Bruce pulled him close.

After breakfast, Bruce did his best to inject his and Jeremiah’s presence into Alfred’s preparations for dinner, but Alfred chased them off. However, they were grateful for the breathing space. Jeremiah fussed enough over his clothing, let alone what in the world he meant to say to Jerome. 

Bruce insisted he’d speak for both of them if need be, but Jeremiah insisted on pulling his weight this time. Bruce admitted that he was almost sure Jerome knew what was coming, which meant that he’d most likely brief Five before they got there—if they showed up at all. Jerome hadn’t responded to Bruce’s text, which had included the time a driver would show to collect them.

At six, to Bruce’s mild shock, the driver texted with a curt _I have them, am now en route_.

Waiting in the library had perhaps been an unwise decision, as all Jeremiah could do was pace the room and lament over how his hardwood choices had been wrong. Bruce had just about yanked him back to the sofa by his waistcoat when Alfred opened the door.

“Master Bruce, Master Jeremiah,” he announced, showing Jerome and Five in, “your guests.”

Jerome waited until Alfred closed the doors behind them to raise his eyebrows at Jeremiah.

“It’s Master now, huh?” he asked airily, leading Five over to sit on the sofa across from them.

Jeremiah shrugged, taking an inelegant swig of whiskey. “It’s less formal than the alternative.”

“Which would be what?” Five asked, unpinning the elegant, face-netted black hat from his head.

Bruce was too dismayed at the precision of tailoring on Five’s off-the-shoulder, ’80s-inspired cocktail dress to respond on Jeremiah’s behalf.

“Mr. Valeska hardly carries the same prestige,” Jeremiah replied with precise, cutting vitriol.

Strangely, Jerome didn’t rise to the bait. If anything, his shrug looked genuinely nonchalant, and he kissed Five’s cheek in order to whisper something in Five’s ear. Five looked mildly, genuinely offended until Jerome slid an arm around him and kissed his dark-rouged lips.

“Guess I wouldn’t know,” Jerome said, finally acknowledging Jeremiah’s retort. “Nobody’s ever called me that with intent to flatter.”

“Thank you for coming,” Bruce said as genuinely as he could manage, knowing his guilt at not having intervened sooner was evident in his expression. “Dinner will be ready in another fifteen or twenty minutes. Would you like something to drink?”

“What he’s having,” Five said imperiously, indicating Jeremiah’s glass, “only make it a double.”

“Is that sidebar stocked with 7-Up and grenadine?” Jerome asked. “Gimme a Shirley Temple.”

“Teetotaler,” Jeremiah scoffed, at which Five reached for his hat-pin in a threatening manner.

Bruce tapped Jeremiah’s forearm and indicated he should go over to make the drinks. “Sure.”

“Sure I’m a teetotaler, or sure I can have a Shirley Temple?” Jerome asked, gleefully watching Jeremiah huffily bang bottles around behind Bruce. “Huh, never mind. Looks like the latter.”

Five didn’t even seem to care that Jeremiah handed Bruce a glass of wine before delivering Jerome’s mocktail or Five’s whiskey. Bruce wondered if Five knew exactly how expensive the single malt really was, but he didn’t doubt Five’s tolerance levels for an instant, especially not when Five knocked back the whole tumbler and held it out for a refill just as Jeremiah sat back down.

“I’ll get that,” Bruce said, rising, snatching the glass away from Five. “Just keep in mind there’s wine with dinner, too.”

Jerome laughed at that. “Full offense, but this one could drink both of you under the table.”

“Even if that were true,” Jeremiah said, “mixing grain and grape can get the best of anyone.”

“You’re already behind a glass,” Five taunted, knocking back the second like it was nothing.

Before Bruce found it necessary to intervene again, Alfred leaned in to say dinner was served.

“They’re just here to steal our thunder,” Jeremiah said bitterly, making sure Bruce hung back with him while Jerome and Five eagerly followed Alfred out. “How can you just—”

“I have a theory,” Bruce said, taking Jeremiah’s arm, practically dragging him into the hall. “If I’m wrong, you can punish me however you want.”

“Which is?” Jeremiah asked, intrigued enough that his anger instantly faded to sharp curiosity.

“Jerome’s attempts to get a rise out of you were milder than Five’s,” Bruce said. “If you refuse the bait, Five will have no choice but to fall in line.”

“Fall in line with what?” Jeremiah asked dubiously. “The bad example Jerome’s already set?”

“No, with his relatively civil responses to my niceties,” Bruce clarified. “Didn’t you notice?”

Jeremiah glared ahead as they emerged into the kitchen on the others’ heels. “Fine, I’ll bite.”

Once the four of them took their seats—Bruce and Jeremiah on one side of the table, Jerome and Five on the other—Alfred served them soup and salad at the same time. Unorthodox, perhaps, but Bruce was almost sure Alfred was trying to hasten things along.

Five took about two bites of his salad and rejected it in favor of the soup. Jerome glanced from the soup to Jeremiah, and then back to the soup. When Jeremiah started to pointedly eat his, Jerome shoved the bowl aside and started to jab at his salad.

Bruce was sure he was going to have to ask Jeremiah what that was about, if only because Jeremiah only managed a few more bites of soup before starting in on his salad, too. He felt better about his unease when he realized Five looked bewildered, too.

“Long story, princess,” Jerome said, instantly perceiving Five’s dismay. “I’ll tell ya later.”

“You might not want him to,” said Jeremiah, with a frankness devoid of sarcasm or disdain.

Five spent thirty seconds looking panicked over whether or not to take Jeremiah’s sincerity at face value. When he couldn’t decide, he splashed his spoon down in his soup, causing both of the twins to glance up in shaken unison.

“When were you going to tell us you’re engaged?” Five demanded, staring abashedly at Bruce. 

Jerome burst into delighted laughter, shaking his head as he hugged Five against his side.

Jeremiah looked comically offended that his prediction about stolen thunder had come true.

“Dessert,” Bruce admitted, actually relieved that he wouldn’t have to initiate the revelation.

Five seemed startled, but pleased that his stressed-out conversational gambit had succeeded.

“Not anymore,” he said, picking up his spoon, and kept quiet until the main course arrived.

The remainder of dinner passed sedately. Five remained embarrassed about his outburst, and Jerome spent most of his time talking directly to Five in order to mitigate the fallout. Jeremiah continued to attempt bland conversation, only to receive distracted answers.

When dessert was about to be served, Jerome asked Alfred if they could have theirs to go. Bruce tensed when he thought Alfred might ask if Jerome was joking, but one glance at how closed-off Five had become resulted in Alfred saying, of course, coming right up.

“I’ll take them out to meet the driver,” Bruce said to Jeremiah, pushing the remainder of his crème brûlée at Jeremiah. “Won’t be long.”

Jerome fixed Jeremiah with a distinctly puzzled look. “Not gonna take a parting shot?”

“Why?” Jeremiah asked, his tone impressively neutral. “You need to get Five home.”

“I don’t want to go home!” Five snapped suddenly, which was the most he’d said since their appetizers. “I want to go to the club.”

“Hey, d’you have a spare?” Jerome asked Alfred while he was busy packing their desserts.

“Better make it two,” Five added, his attention fixed on Jerome, who was repinning his hat.

“Certainly,” Alfred sighed, sealing off a third and fourth, adding them to the two in the bag.

“Thanks,” Five said, accepting the bag when Alfred brought it to them. “For Jeri and Avi.”

Bruce didn’t say anything as he led them out. Jerome continued to make several chatty attempts at trying to figure out what the catch was.

“You’re serious about that lunatic in there, huh,” Jerome said as he helped Five into the sedan.

Bruce just nodded, determined not to correct him. He was nobody to assert his sanity and Jeremiah’s over Jerome’s and Five’s, not anymore.

Jerome whistled and shrugged, sliding into the back seat after Five. “Welcome to the family.”

Waving as the vehicle bore them away, Bruce realized Jeremiah had come outside, but too late.

“I can’t claim I’ve joined you in hopes of seeing them off,” Jeremiah said. “Walk with me?”

“Of course,” Bruce said, taking Jeremiah’s offered hand. The glow of Jeremiah’s skin in the settling dusk reminded him of nothing so much as the night of their unsuccessful attempt to halt Ra’s al Ghul’s plan in its tracks. “Where are we going?”

“Not far,” Jeremiah replied, leading them in the direction of the servants’ quarters, which had been rebuilt even though they wouldn’t be put to use.

Bruce hadn’t expected they’d find the doors open. However, it didn’t surprise him that Jeremiah took them to the cellar, or that it wasn’t empty.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Jeremiah said, making his way to a familiar, complicated console.

The only thing missing was a bank of surveillance monitors. In the middle of Jeremiah’s workspace, a lately constructed generator awaited them.

“Got it,” Bruce said, smiling at him. “We’re still connected to the power grid, though.”

“Not for long,” Jeremiah said, indicating a set of controls on the wall. “Do the honors?”

Bruce hit the switch, dashing to Jeremiah before the lights died. “This’ll power the Manor?”

“Everything from the Palisades to Midtown,” Jeremiah said, punching buttons as darkness descended.

As the generator flared, blue-white brilliance at the heart of the room, Bruce took Jeremiah’s hand.


End file.
